KRISTEN BRITAIN’S

EXCITING TALE

OF KARIGAN G’LADHEON

Green Rider

First Rider’s Call

The High King’s Tomb

Blackveil

Mirror Sight

Firebrand

Winterlight

Falling in a Sea of Stars

*

AND OTHER TALES FROM THE WORLD OF GREEN RIDER

The Dream Gatherer

Spirit of the Wood

Copyright © 2025 by Kristen Britain

All rights reserved. Copying or digitizing this book for storage, display, or distribution in any other medium is strictly prohibited. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, please contact permissions@astrapublishinghouse.com.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Jacket art by Donato

Jacket design by Adam Auerbach

Map by Kristen Britain

Edited by Betsy Wollheim

DAW Book Collectors No. 1990

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Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Britain, Kristen, author.

Title: Falling in a sea of stars / Kristen Britain.

Description: First edition. | New York : DAW Books, 2025. | Series: Green rider series ; 8

Identifiers: LCCN 2025012478 (print) | LCCN 2025012479 (ebook) | ISBN 9780756408824 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780756411602 (ebook)

Subjects: LCGFT: Fantasy fiction. | Novels.

Classification: LCC PS3552.R4964 F35 2025 (print) | LCC PS3552.R4964 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54--dc23/eng/20250404

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2025012478

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2025012479

First edition: September 2025

In Memory of

Roberta J. Britain Momberger

my mom

and

the most important human being in my life

now eternal among the stars of the heavens,

her favorite eight iron at hand for a round of golf

and a passel of Westies gamboling alongside her

I love and miss you, mom

THE CALLING

The spearhead tips of conifers pierced the pall of mist that draped Blackveil Forest. Moisture drip-drip-dripped from branch and needle and plunked onto the black moss that matted the ground. Stagnant air choked the understory and dampened sound, but the quiet was deceptive.

A sentience filled with malice stirred in Blackveil’s rotten heart.

All the forest and its creatures stilled. They waited, wary and uneasy, though somewhere in the deepest murk, a serpent emerged from its burrow, scales lustrous in the muted light as it glided over tree roots and coiled around rocks. It paused, head wavering and tongue flickering, before it struck and swallowed a spine-tailed rat whole.

Malevolence flowed through fetid streams, into every gully and thicket, and was sucked in by the roots of trees all the way to the canopy. It built like a flood straining against a dam until it could no longer be contained.

The force erupted with so furious a roar it flushed winged creatures from their roosts. Other beasts shrieked and howled and bolted in fear. The very ground shook and trees shattered and crashed to the forest floor.

Blackveil’s master, the sentience known as Mornhavon the Black, had awakened once again.

And settled with a sigh.

• • •

Alessandros del Mornhavon, the heir to the emperor of the far distant Arcosian Empire, had led a conquest of territory held by the Sacor Clans more than a thousand years past to claim its resources, especially its abundant etherea, the natural magic of the world. It had faded almost to extinction in his own lands due to overuse, especially in augmenting the strength of the military and enhancing the lives of the ruling elite. When the empire stopped sending him ships of supplies and soldiers, and the messengers he dispatched to his father to plead for aid failed to return, it was clear he’d been abandoned and left an exile in an uncouth wilderness.

Incensed, he rejected the empire as he had been rejected and continued his conquest, declaring the lands Mornhavonia, of which he was master, emperor, and god.

Until his defeat by the Sacor Clans and their allies.

Wounded by a magical device of his own making and imprisoned behind the cursed wall, he had slept long centuries. He’d awakened briefly almost three years previous, only to be wounded again by the descendent of he who had once been his closest friend but later proved a traitor: Hadriax el Fex, the galadheon, the betrayer.

The time had come for Mornhavon to right the many wrongs perpetrated against him.

• • •

The forest tensed once more, but this time the outburst was tightly controlled and carried a calling, a calling sent out into the ether as fleet and sharp as an arrow. A call that sought the two who must rise and serve.

The call soared over the canopy of the forest northward. It flew relentlessly on, surmounting the broken section of the D’Yer Wall that imprisoned the malignant presence within Blackveil, and impaled the untainted earth upon which the season’s first snow had begun to fall.

But it did not stop there. Carried by branch and leaf, upon currents of the air, and deep within the soil, the call spread to the far reaches of Sacoridia.

Terrandon, Terrandon, Terrandon . . .

• • •

In the deep woods of Wayman Province stood the remains of a crumbled keep on what had once been an open promontory fortified by ditches and walls, its lord long forgotten in the shadows of the past. Moss and leaf litter blanketed stones quarried at the time of Mornhavon’s defeat. So motionless, so silent was it in the deep of the wood that snowflakes could be heard to alight with a feathery tap-tap on stone and bough.

Down from the ruins, in a dell, also forgotten, lay a mound, a rocky burial cairn surrounded by obelisks, their inscriptions weathered and obscured by green-gray lichen, though the horse form of Salvistar, harbinger of strife and battle, could be discerned, as well as symbols of warding. A few of the monuments tilted at precarious angles, and one lay broken on the ground beneath a carpet of moss.

The cairn stood bare, but for a layering of dead pine needles and leaves. No life sprouted from it despite the fact it was nearly as old as the keep.

Terrandon, Terrandon, Terrandon . . . came the call. It whispered through the trees, scattering birds and squirrels, and wove between the obelisks. Spells of warding, which had been set into them at the end of the Long War, should have deterred the calling, but the spells had not been maintained and had grown weak. The warding was not meant to keep people out, though the symbols scribed on the obelisks warned all to turn back, but to keep the one who slept beneath the cairn in, for it was a prison.

The calling sparked against the faint power of the warding spells that remained. They could not deter it, and it rushed across the clearing to the cairn. It oozed through cracks and crevices and into the burial chamber beneath.

Terrandon, Terrandon, Terrandon . . .

• • •

The call also spread to the east coast of Sacoridia seeking a remote and bleak headland in Coutre Province. There, another crown of obelisks stood against the sky atop a precipitous bluff. In ancient times, men had hauled wave-tumbled boulders all the way up from the ocean shoreline to build a cairn in the center of the circle. Like the one in Wayman, nothing grew within the circle, and even seabirds would not nest on the headland’s cliffs.

Here the calling forced itself between the wind-scoured obelisks, causing eruptions of searing power. The carved granite of the obelisks exploded and the ancient spells of warding died.

Lichant, Lichant, Lichant . . . came the calling, and it found its way into the earthen burial chamber.

The calling had come before, but it had been weaker and failed. Now the entombed, Terrandon and Lichant, twitched on their funerary slabs in response to the call of their master. Chains rattled, and manacles weakened by rust and age crumbled. Wards and curses meant to imprison them forever, but neglected and diminished by age, failed.

Three years ago, the lords of the north and west had risen only to be defeated by Green Riders, but now, Terrandon of the south, and Lichant of the east, clawed their way out of their prisons to answer the summons, for they must serve.

Seek the betrayer, Mornhavon commanded. Seek the Galadheon and bring her to me.

BLIGHT

“Cut it down and burn it,” Rider Dale Littlepage ordered.

The season’s first snow flurried down around the massive pine and melted on her cheeks as she gazed upward. It was a pity to destroy it, but its bark was riddled with blight, a black fungus that accelerated rot in otherwise healthy trees, and Sacoridia, with its vast, lush forests and reliance on the lumber trade, could not afford to allow it to spread.

As a pair of soldiers set to with their crosscut saw, Dale turned around. In the near distance gaped the breach in the D’Yer Wall. It looked as if a giant had knocked out a section of the wall, which rose to either side, seemingly infinitely to the heavens, an alchemy of stonecraft and magic. The repair work consisting of mundane stone and masonry filled the bottom of the breach. No giant, however, had broken the wall, but a single Eletian using magic to weaken a section that had already languished due to centuries of neglect.

Beyond the repair work, gray mist billowed and shifted, revealing the black crooked limbs of Blackveil Forest before concealing them once again. Dale had little doubt about the origin of the blight. It was even affecting the wood of their cabins and barracks, which would require repairs, and perhaps even rebuilds. It did not bode well for the palisade that had been recently constructed to encircle much of the main encampment. There were plans to build a keep of stone, but that would likely take years, and reinforcing the stonework of the breach took priority.

She glanced over her shoulder at the soldiers rhythmically sawing into the great pine, and decided she’d best remove herself from the area before it was felled. As she did so, the encampment’s chief mender, Leese, headed her way, and she sighed.

“Corporal,” Dale called to one of the soldiers nearby, “make sure everyone stays clear of that tree coming down, and get a crew together to hack it up and burn it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I thought you were going to take a rest day,” Leese said when she intercepted Dale.

Dale snorted. “There’s no time for that.”

Leese hurried to keep up. “You can’t keep going like this. When was the last time you had a full night’s sleep?”

Dale had no idea. She didn’t want to rest or sleep because that gave her time to think about . . . She swallowed hard, then halted. Leese stumbled to a stop beside her.

“Look, I didn’t ask to be put in charge,” Dale said, “and with the way things have been?” She shrugged. At least there hadn’t been any new incursions from Blackveil, except for the blight.

“When does Captain Wallace’s . . .” Leese cleared her throat. “I mean, do you know when the permanent commander is due to arrive?”

Captain Wallace’s replacement. That was what Leese had almost said. Dale closed her eyes, took a deep breath. She and Wallace had been in love. At first, they’d just enjoyed one another’s friendship and company, but it had grown into more. It had grown enough that they’d actually broached the subject of marriage.

“Dale?” Leese said. “Dale, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . It came out wrong.”

The night the dark Eletians had stormed into the encampment by Tower of the Heavens, she’d witnessed her love torn apart by unstoppable enemies. Memory of being unable to reach him through the battle tormented her both in her dreams and waking hours, as though his loss was her fault.

She took another deep breath. “Captain Wallace’s replacement will likely arrive within the next few days.”

Many of their troops had been savagely killed or injured, and with Alton D’Yer hovering between life and death, they’d looked to her for leadership. After hostilities ended with Second Empire elsewhere, a few different officers had rotated through on a temporary basis to oversee the presence at the wall, then pulled out as the king and his generals reorganized. More troops had joined them, but their officers deferred to her because of her time and experience there, and because of Alton’s wishes.

“The captain was a good man,” Leese said quietly. “A good leader. He wouldn’t want to see you driving yourself so hard.”

“Please . . .” Dale blinked away the tears, fought the grief she had choked back for so long. It had been three months and it still ambushed her at odd moments. She had to lead the soldiers. She couldn’t break down in front of them.

“You’ve exhausted yourself,” Leese persisted. “What would Alton say?”

“He’d be doing the same if he were here.”

“Perhaps,” Leese mused, “he was not the best example for me to use.”

“He entrusted me to take care of things the way I saw fit.”

“And when he returns, what? You collapse? He’ll need you then, too.”

Alton was convalescing in Woodhaven, the seat of Lord-Governor Quentin D’Yer, his father. Dale did not discount Leese’s mending skills, but he could have died from the terrible wound inflicted on him by the dark Eletian. In fact, he had died briefly, but somehow pulled through.

“I don’t—” Dale protested.

She was interrupted by a strange feeling, an upwelling vibrating beneath her feet. A wind thick with the stench of rotting vegetation gushed through the breach. Creatures cried and howled from the other side of the wall.

Her brooch pinched her chest and she could almost hear or feel a calling, but could not make out the words.

Leese grabbed her arm and pointed. A winged creature, huge and oily black, with a long, snakelike neck and terrible talons, emerged from the mist that blanketed Blackveil Forest and swooped over them, every wingstroke beating a fetid stench down on them and churning the softly falling snow into chaotic swirls. The Eletians called them antesheys.

A scream stuck in Dale’s throat and she could not move. She could not hear Leese yelling at her. Dale had once almost been carried off by such a creature near this very spot, and she still bore the deep scars of its talons in her shoulder.

Leese was shaking her now, but Dale’s gaze was transfixed on the avian as it positioned itself overhead to stoop into a dive, with her and Leese as its target.

A blur of fur streaked from the woods, a bobcat. He snarled and leaped, seamlessly transforming into a gryphon, wings sprouting from his back, his snout growing into a powerful raptor’s beak.

“Bob!” Leese cried.

The anteshey backwinged as Bob arrowed straight for it. This time when Leese pulled, Dale stumbled after her.

When they neared the shelter of a cabin, they looked back. Gryphon and anteshey had locked talons, wings beating frantically. Bob dug in with his front claws, as well, and clamped his beak on the avian’s neck. The anteshey, however, was able to reach down with its own beak and snap at Bob’s spine. Dale clenched and unclenched her hands as she watched, fearful for Bob. Nearby, archers assembled and stood ready should he fail.

He broke off and she immediately saw why. More gryphons appeared and flew directly toward the anteshey with an eager meep or two. The gryphlings, all five of them, had arrived from Tower of the Heavens, followed by their parents, Mister Whiskers and Midnight. Whiskers and Midnight flew almost casually behind, holding back as the gryphlings cut through the snow and honed in on the anteshey. They were growing up quickly, no longer the roly-poly balls of fluff and feather, but lean and quick adolescents, and they were savage in their attack. The anteshey hadn’t a chance.

“This is going to get messy,” Leese said. “I wish they wouldn’t disembowel prey in midair.”

Dale closely watched as the gryphlings shredded the anteshey, feathers and entrails showering down, and something lightened inside of her to see that huge, menacing creature utterly destroyed. She rubbed her shoulder and smiled, but her smile faltered as she recalled the vibration she had felt in the earth just before the anteshey had arrived. The calling.

“What is it?” Leese asked.

“Did you feel, or hear, anything just before the avian came over the breach?”

“There was a gust of wind.”

“Anything else?”

“No, not really. What’s wrong?”

“Something else came through,” Dale said. “I’m sure of it, and it flushed that anteshey out of Blackveil.” She hastened to the pickets where her horse, Plover, awaited her.

• • •

Tower of the Heavens was one of ten towers located along the expanse of the D’Yer Wall. The towers had been constructed to allow guards to maintain a watch on Blackveil Forest and the wall itself, but centuries ago, that watch had failed. Within each tower, except one, remained the spiritlike visages of great mages who had assisted in that watch. They’d remained for a millennium, enduring even after death, something of their life essences preserved in lumps of tourmaline.

Dale eased through the stone wall of the tower. It had no door but permitted Green Riders to magically pass through solid stone. Once inside, she was hit by the acrid stench of cat. They’d made progress in training the gryphling brood to do their business outside, but the odor lingered. At least they hadn’t dumped a moose carcass inside of late.

As usual, she found the tower’s mage, Merdigen, arguing with his son, Duncan, also a mage.

“You can’t make me,” Duncan was saying. “I’d never agree.”

Merdigen tugged on his long ivory whiskers. “You are being selfish as always. I thought maybe you had changed, but I guess I was wrong. What will you do? Hide in the eyrie of the eagles for another thousand years?”

Duncan looked about to make a heated retort. Dale stopped him short by clearing her throat. “Oh, my dear lady, hello.” He gave her a flamboyant bow. While Merdigen looked the part of a wise old mage, Duncan maintained the appearance of a youthful and handsome man, his hair coiffed just so, and his shirt open to reveal his chest. Dale wondered if he had actually appeared thus when alive, or had made enhancements to his projected self. “How pleasant for you to visit us. You are looking radiant as ever.”

He was a terrible flirt.

“Right,” she said. “I was down at the breach, and something came through.”

The two mages glanced at one another, then vanished. She sighed and pulled out a chair, checking it first to make sure it was not covered in furballs or dismembered prey, and sat to wait. It did not take long before the two reappeared.

“Yes, something did come through,” Merdigen said, “and the wall guardians are extremely upset.”

He meant the spirits of magic users who had been sacrificed to create the magical strength of the wall. They existed within stone and mortar and held it together with song.

“Did they say what it was?” she asked.

“They do not speak in coherent speech patterns like you and me,” Merdigen said, “and when they are upset, it is hard to get much out of them.”

“Sort of like you,” Duncan muttered.

“Now, you listen here, boy—”

“Stop.” Dale’s patience had eroded greatly over the past few months. “What got through?”

Merdigen seemed to shrink in despair. “A calling of some sort. A calling from the heart of Blackveil, from Mornhavon the Black himself.”

This did not sound good. Not good at all. “To who, or what?”

“Whom, my lady,” Duncan replied. Before she could snap at him, he explained, “Based on what we have heard of events that occurred a few years ago, of a similar call going out, Mornhavon has summoned his remaining two lieutenants.”

“A few years ago? Lieutenants?”

“Sacor Clan chiefs who turned to Arcosia’s side and were rewarded with power and status by Mornhavon,” Merdigen said. “According to the accounts, he successfully roused Varadgrim, ancient lord of the north, and Mirdhwell, lord of the west. This time he’s after Lichant and Terrandon, we believe.”

Dale remembered the names of Varadgrim and Mirdhwell. The raising of Varadgrim had cost the lives of many in a delegation on its way to make contact with the Eletians. The two undead wraiths had also attacked castle grounds, and Mara, now the lieutenant of the Green Riders, had used her ability with fire to stop one of them as it searched the old Rider barracks for Karigan G’ladheon.

Varadgrim had eventually been defeated only when Karigan, inhabited by the spirit of the First Rider, slew him.

Dale scrubbed her face and felt, suddenly, a hundred years old. “Will he—will Mornhavon be successful in awakening these wraiths?”

“Hard to say for sure,” Duncan replied, “but if he is, they are no doubt already free of their prisons and have reentered the world.”

A BENCH ON THE HILL

Screams reverberated through every nerve of his body, cries of alarm and despair. Voices begged him to help them as evil brushed against stone. The wall guardians wailed as the dark calling slipped through the breach.

Alton D’Yer jerked awake, blinking in the daylight, confused and bleary-eyed.

“Alton? What is it?”

As his sight cleared, his gaze fell upon Estral sitting in an armchair across from him, her legs tucked beneath her. Sunlight streamed in from a near window and a fire crackled on the hearth. A book lay open on his blanket-draped lap.

“Alton?” she asked again, in her hoarse voice.

Sweat cooled on his temple. He wiped it with the back of his hand. “I dozed off, I guess.” Already, the dream was evaporating like shreds of mist.

“Yes, you did,” she replied, “in the middle of a conversation.”

“That was rude of me,” he murmured. He cursed himself inwardly. It would only convince them—Estral, his parents, the menders—that he wasn’t ready to resume his duties at the wall any time soon. “What were we talking about?”

“Bridges,” she said.

He glanced down at the book, a dry treatise on proper bridge construction, and it was upside down. No wonder he’d nodded off. He’d grabbed the book at random from his father’s library to read while Estral worked on her history of the Green Riders. Though she’d thoroughly searched the contents of the D’Yer library, she had found little that was pertinent.

Some remnant of his dream came back to him. Voices. Wall guardians. A fell voice calling. He shivered.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Remember that bit of music you were working on? For the wall, I mean.”

“I have never forgotten.”

The wall guardians had taken a shine to Estral in a way they never had to him. It was her voice and music they responded to, and small cracks around the breach had actually begun to heal. But then, a malevolent spell had stolen her voice. She could still speak at times, either in a whisper, or hoarsely as now, but at other times she had to communicate with chalk and slate. She most certainly could not sing.

“In fact,” she continued, “I carry a copy of that measure with me just in case . . .” She broke off and shook her head, a look of despair in her eyes.

The measure of music had been scribed into a book that documented the building of the D’Yer Wall. The great mage, Theanduris Silverwood, had written the book and overseen the creation of the wall, but the measure of music had been written in the hand of Estral’s ancestor, the first Golden Guardian, Gerlrand Fiori. They’d hoped she could find the “answer” to his five notes that sounded a “question,” and that it would help repair the wall entirely, but the magical attack that had stolen her voice had cut the endeavor short.

“Does this mean,” he said, “you’ve been working on it?” When the pain of her expression deepened, he was sorry he had asked.

“You know I’ve tried,” she said. “When I was in Selium, I pulled out all of Gerlrand’s work, his songs and scores, from the archives to see if I could find anything that would illuminate this one measure, but . . .” She shook her head. “It was all gibberish to me. The spell didn’t just take my voice and ability to play my lute; it took my ability to read and understand music. I can’t make sense of it, even when someone tries to show me how, or reteach me.”

“I’m sorry,” Alton said. “I should not have brought it up.”

She heaved a deep breath, and said, her voice now a mere wisp, “I have some minstrels working on it for me.”

“That’s a relief.” His sense was, however, that the measure required one of Gerlrand’s blood, specifically Estral, to unlock the missing notes. The music of the Fioris contained some magic that was able to reach the wall guardians. “I hope you can forgive me for asking about it. I think my dreams brought it to mind.” Though he’d lost the thread of the dream, a feeling of urgency remained. In fact, he’d begun to feel rather antsy.

“I forgive you,” she whispered.

“I love you,” he replied, and she smiled.

It had been amazing to wake up from one of his long healing sleeps weeks ago to find her sitting by his bed. She’d apparently been on her way to Sacor City in the aftermath of the Battle of the Sleeping Waelds, as the defeat of Second Empire was called, when she heard of his wounding. She had immediately turned for Woodhaven. He was truly a lucky man. She aided him through his recovery, offering quiet encouragement, and the occasional metaphorical kick in the buttocks when he needed it.

His parents, of course, were thrilled to host the Golden Guardian, and that a lady of such noble station cared for their son. And yet . . . though Lord D’Yer was by all measures delighted, if not smitten, by Estral, Alton sensed reservations on his father’s part at the possibility of a marriage match between his heir and the Fiori. Although Estral’s station as the Golden Guardian was akin to being a lord-governor, what she governed was not land, but a school and city, and the arts, history, and culture of Sacoridia. Her title would do little to bring the sort of wealth and power to the clan that Lord D’Yer would expect or desire.

Still, Lord D’Yer had not yet spoken of his misgivings to Alton and was, perhaps, taking time to assess how serious the relationship actually was. If it seemed unlikely to endure, then Lord D’Yer would avoid the unpleasant duty of having to intervene.

For Alton’s part, his intentions for Estral were extremely serious, and soon his father would have his answer.

She gazed into the fire. She’d had her own horrific time last winter as she traveled with Karigan and an Eletian into the north. Hardship, capture, torture, the loss of her father . . . Alton had not been there for her the way she had been here for him. His role at the wall had prevented it, but still he felt guilty. He would do his best to make it up to her. But first, he had to do something about that antsy feeling, which he took as a sign that he was truly mending.

“Do you feel like a walk?” he asked.

• • •

As they climbed the hill, Alton was dismayed by how the effort stole his breath, breath that steamed in the air. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets because, of course, he hadn’t worn gloves. He tried to conceal his labored breathing from Estral, but she was too observant.

“You all right?” she asked him in a whisper.

He nodded curtly. It was troubling how the wound had enfeebled him. Every day he tried to increase his stamina, and time after time he was humbled.

“You are doing well,” she told him. “It’s steep.”

He appreciated her encouragement but he didn’t believe her one bit. When he was a child, he ran up this hill with friends so he could fly back down it on his sled at breakneck speed. He’d never be able to ascend with the ease he had as a child, but at least he’d made it to the top.

A thicket of low-growing trees skirted the summit, but largely left the view of Woodhaven below unimpeded. It was a large town with the walled compound of the D’Yers on a hill of its own in its midst. Hundreds of chimneys puffed plumes of smoke into the sky. On the outskirts, daylight glanced off the half-frozen water of ponds and flooded quarries. Beyond Woodhaven, beyond the dull browns and grays and evergreen of the farmland and forests that surrounded the town, were clearings where active quarries continued to produce some of the finest granite in all of Sacoridia. Far to the east, he could make out the jagged ridges of the Wingsong Mountains beneath a ceiling of clouds dense with the promise of snow.

Something of the scene tugged at his memory. Not his boyhood memory of sledding, but something more . . . recent? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d climbed the hill, certainly not since he’d become a Green Rider. It was like a dream, or maybe like someone stepping on his grave. He rubbed his eyes as a shadow seemed to sweep over him.

“Alton?” Estral said, her sea green eyes full of concern.

“My grandsire used to walk up here with me on occasion,” he replied. “Used to talk about how fine the granite beneath our feet was, but he would not allow this hill to be quarried. He liked to get a look at the surrounding country, the lay of the land, and he believed that the K’maernians who taught us stonework once lived up here. There are some old foundations down the south slope a ways, but they could be from anything.”

He turned south, but the ruins were not visible from this vantage, and vegetation was grown up around them anyway. A range of higher hills blocked his view toward the great wall and the Blackveil Peninsula. If the magic in the wall made it appear to ascend to the heavens when he stood next to it, then why, he wondered, couldn’t he see it from here? Illusion, he supposed. It was there, but not visible unless you were right at the wall.

A throb passed through his veins, a summons pulling him southward. To the wall. Voices sang in his mind. He closed his eyes and forcibly turned away. An icy breeze stung his cheeks.

“Kind of cold,” Estral said. She wrapped her arms around herself.

He frowned. “Sorry, let’s head back down. I’m sure they’ll have some hot-spiced cider on the stove.”

They began their descent, but he stopped short. Estral gave him a questioning look.

He strode over to a clump of overgrown shrubbery and started pushing it aside. Matted by layers of leaves and moss was a bench of rusted wrought iron that had been formed with a leaf and branch design. He had last sat on it with Beryl Spencer. No, that wasn’t right. He’d been told that she had perished on some mission in the east. Even though she was a Green Rider, the king had often sent her off on secretive spy missions which meant he’d rarely ever seen her. So why did he seem to think the two of them would have sat together on this bench? He could not recall the how or why of it, but he was quite certain they had. He scratched his head in consternation.

“What is it?” Estral asked in a faint voice.

It must have been a dream. So many dreams.

“Alton?”

He turned to her and smiled. “Sorry, I got distracted. Doesn’t look like anyone has used that bench in many years. I forgot it was there.”

As they descended the hill, he felt a prickling on the back of his neck, but it must have been the touch of a snowflake on his skin.

• • •

When they reached the inner courtyard of the lord-governor’s compound, they found it full of soldiers milling about taking care of horses and baggage. They were not D’Yerian militia, but Sacoridian regulars.

“That’s the River Unit,” Estral said, “or some of it.” She looked eagerly about, and when her gaze landed on an officer talking to Lord D’Yer, she exclaimed, “Miles!” and sprinted off to join him.

Alton watched aghast as she ran into the man’s arms and hugged him soundly. It was, to his mind, a far too friendly greeting.

RENNARD

Estral and Captain Miles Rennard parted as Alton approached.

“Allow me to present my son and heir, Alton,” Lord D’Yer said.

Rennard gave Alton a very proper bow. “My lord.”

Alton appraised the well-turned-out captain with a critical eye as Rennard did likewise. At length, Alton nodded and said, “Welcome to Woodhaven, Captain. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

The captain raised an eyebrow and glanced at Estral. “All good, I hope?”

“Very much so,” Alton replied. “I appreciate the service you rendered the Lady Fiori in the north, as she is very dear to me.” In fact, she had spoken often and with warmth about “Miles.”

“It was truly a privilege.”

Rennard, Alton knew, had led the honor guard that escorted Estral and the body of her father from the north to Selium. He had then stayed on to assist with funeral arrangements and, apparently, to provide emotional support, before returning to normal duty. Alton should have been the one to be there for her. Karigan had even sent him a letter asking him to attend the funeral, but orders were orders and he remained at the wall. His parents had gone in his stead.

“What brings you?” he asked.

“The captain has orders to take command at the wall,” his father said.

“I’ve stopped by to inform His Grace as a courtesy,” Rennard said. “I’ve brought two hundred of the River Unit with me to supplement the force already in place.”

Normally, Alton would be pleased by the addition of more troops, and he was, but he couldn’t help but have misgivings about Rennard himself. Or, was he just jealous?

“Lady Fiori has referred to you as ‘lieutenant’ when she has spoken of you,” Alton said. “It would seem congratulations are in order on your promotion.”

“I thank you. I was promoted a month ago, but I’ve a good deal of experience.”

“And the confidence of General Washburn,” Lord D’Yer added, “who has personally vouched for him and assigned him to the wall.” He handed Alton a sheaf of papers with ribbons dangling from official seals. A quick glance revealed that these were Rennard’s orders, signed by the general, and sealed by the army’s top command.

“I do not go in blindly,” Rennard said, “for I have studied the wall, read your reports, and spoken with many who have been assigned there.”

“It is not the same as being there,” Alton replied.

“No, I expect it is not. I hope I will benefit from your extensive experience and guidance. My understanding is that, though I am to command the troops there, I will report to you.”

Alton looked the man over again. His bearing exuded confidence as he stood there sure and straight in his crisp, clean uniform, his hands clasped behind his back. Alton was certain females, and maybe some males, found him appealing to look upon.

A quick glance to Estral revealed her barely suppressed amusement. He narrowed his eyes. She was amused by his reaction to Rennard.

“Will you be staying in Woodhaven?” he asked the captain.

“Only for the night. His Grace has generously offered us space in the militia’s barracks.”

He was going to stay with his soldiers? Now that impressed Alton. Most officers would jump at the chance to stay in the lord’s house, and he knew his father would have offered a guest suite to him.

“If you will excuse me,” Rennard said, “I must see that my people get settled.” He bowed. “My lords, my lady.” And with that, he was off with a pair of aides on his heels.

“He appears very capable,” Lord D’Yer said, admiration in his eyes, a look Alton had never received from his father.

“We’ll see,” Alton muttered. He fantasized about Rennard pissing his pants the first time he saw an anteshey or a dark Eletian.

Estral took his arm. “Come now,” she said. “You promised me hot-spiced cider.”

He allowed her to pull him away, but as they rested in the kitchen and drank the refreshment, he quickly faded into weariness from the effort of climbing the hill, and she found a servant to help her get him to his bed chamber. It was humiliating to feel so weak.

As he rested, a dream came to him. He stood upon the hill at night, but as he gazed at the view, there was darkness where he should have seen the lights of Woodhaven. Just stars in the sky and him. But no, he was not alone. Someone sat on the bench, and in the dream, it was not overgrown and covered in moss.

When he approached, he discovered it was Beryl Spencer who sat there, attired in her Green Rider uniform. She gazed ahead as though unaware of him, the glint of stars in her eyes. There was a familiarity to the scene, as though it had happened before, or perhaps it was simply a memory from earlier in the day trickling into his dream.

It all washed away when he awoke sometime later.

“Damn these dreams.” He rubbed crust out of his eyes.

It turned out he had just enough time to dress for supper and escort Estral to the dining hall.

“Did you rest well?” she asked.

Despite the dreaming, he felt refreshed. A week ago, even a few days ago, he would have had to stay abed all night and well into the next day after an excursion up that hill. He really was getting better.

“Very well,” he answered her. “I feel more like my old self than I have in a long time.” That was an exaggeration, perhaps, but his quick recovery from the hike made him ebullient.

However, his good spirits diminished somewhat when he discovered Captain Rennard would not be dining with his soldiers. He sat at the head table with Lord and Lady D’Yer. As a guest, he was placed to the right hand of Alton’s father. Estral sat between him and Alton.

Alton felt left out of the conversation as Rennard and Estral caught up and laughed at incidents to which he lacked the requisite nuances. Then Lord D’Yer asked the captain about the Battle of the Lone Forest.

“I understand you were there,” Lord D’Yer said.

“I was indeed,” Rennard replied. “I was with the king’s cohort as we made our surprise attack on Second Empire. Many uncanny things happened that night, and I admit my fear was great, but I’d a token from Lady Estral to keep me safe.” He smiled at her, and she beamed back at him. Alton glared at his plate, no longer hungry, his good mood turning sour. She had given him a token? That was what lovers did.

But Rennard said, “After all was said and done, and we were on the road to Selium, I returned the token, her minstrel brooch, when she made clear her heart belonged to Lord Alton. The gesture had done what it needed to at the time, and that’s what was important. It gave me courage as I set off into battle, not knowing if I would survive the night.”

Alton’s anger turned to ashes. What she had done for a young soldier going into battle had been a kindness, a generosity of the heart. He reached over and squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.

Mollified, he listened to Rennard’s description of the battle, the horror of demons attacking, the king’s valor, and the surrender of the enemy. He told of rumors of the god of death arriving upon the scene astride his great black stallion, Salvistar.

“One or two claim they glimpsed Westrion and his steed,” Rennard continued, “but it was a confusing night, and the haze of battle can muddle a soldier’s mind. Was he there? I cannot say, but there were certainly enough souls present for him to collect.”

A strange expression had fallen over Estral’s face as Rennard spoke.

“What is it?” Alton whispered, but she just shook her head. Did she think she, too, had seen the god of death? That would be a disconcerting and frightening sight.

After the formal dinner concluded, Rennard asked to speak with Alton in more detail about the encampment at the wall, so the two retired to a seating area near the fire with goblets of mulled wine. The arms of Clan D’Yer, a sword crossed by a hammer on a field of gold, and bordered by a crenelated stone wall, hung above the hearth. When Estral excused herself to work on her book, Alton saw how Rennard’s gaze followed her as she walked across the hall.

“I am envious you’ve her devotion,” the captain said.

Alton smiled. “She puts up with me, but she is the Golden Guardian, and her first duty is to the people of Selium.”

“I do not think she considers you a duty.” Rennard chuckled. “In any case, we all have our duty and roles to perform. At the wall, I know you are in charge.”

“I am but a Green Rider.”

“Hardly. You are the one everyone looks to for answers and direction. I do not want to step on any toes when I arrive, so perhaps you can tell me more about the command arrangements there, and anything that is of especial importance to you.”

Alton told him what he could of the forces at the wall, and who answered to whom, and the personalities of those involved, including those of the tower mages and gryphons.

“This Rider Littlepage,” Rennard said, “who is currently in charge. What is her rank?”

“Green Rider,” Alton replied.

Rennard looked aghast. “I have the utmost respect for the king’s messengers, but you left a commoner of no rank in charge?”

Indignation arose in Alton. “Do not mistake being a Green Rider as being without rank. By that measure, she and I are at the same level. Only because I am the heir to Lord D’Yer do I command some authority. Rider Littlepage has been at the wall almost as long as I have, and more consistently than anyone besides myself. She is able to enter the towers to speak with the mages. She has intimate knowledge of some of the creatures that inhabit Blackveil. You could say she is my lieutenant, if you like, and she will be an asset to you as you find your footing there.”

Rennard nodded his acceptance. “I meant no offense to Rider Littlepage. What should I expect from Blackveil?”

They spoke at length about the creatures that had made their way over the breach, and what the Blackveil expedition had encountered a year and a half ago.

“Some creatures may appear wholesome,” Alton said, “such as the hummingbirds, but they are most decidedly not.”

Rennard, who had fought demons in the Lone Forest, looked unsettled as he listened to the description of dark Eletians. Good, Alton thought. None of this was to be taken lightly.

“They can come through the towers to our side of the wall?”

Alton nodded. “When the wall was created, only certain people were permitted passage through them—the tower mages, wall keepers, Green Riders, and Eletians.”

“And because these dark Eletians were originally ordinary Eletians, they can pass through, too?”

“A thousand years as Sleepers in Blackveil have corrupted them,” Alton replied. “Never forget how utterly dangerous they are.” He patted his midsection where one had stabbed him.

“I hear your warning and shall heed it, “ Rennard said. He leaned in closer and said in a low voice, “I understand this is not the only warning you have spoken, but you have not mentioned the other this night.”

There was the prickling on the back of Alton’s neck once more, and a brief impression from his dream earlier, of Beryl sitting on the bench. When he realized he was rubbing the back of his neck, he stopped.

“It is said,” Rennard continued, “that you sent a warning to the king about dragons. Are there dragons in Blackveil? I thought they were just legend.”

“I—I don’t know. I was badly injured at the time, probably babbling nonsense.” Even as he said it, he knew it to be wrong. “I don’t know why I gave that warning. I am told I had just come back from death.”

Rennard nodded sagely. “And in the passage from beyond the veil, much can be seen and known. Or so says my sister who is a monk.” He grinned. “It may be that we find out, eh? I once thought gryphons and Eletians just the stuff of stories for children, but have been proven wrong. It is a time of wonders with legends walking the Earth once more.”

Dragons will come, had been Alton’s message in his delirium. He hoped it didn’t mean real dragons. They’d have their hands full with just what lay beyond the D’Yer Wall.

• • •

Later that night, Estral found him in his chamber packing his saddlebags. Her voice had deserted her once more, and she scribbled on her slate and showed it to him.

Going somewhere? she asked.

“I’m riding to the wall with Rennard tomorrow. It was time I returned to duty.” He gazed at his green shortcoat before he folded it and stuffed it into his bag. “It’s been far too long since I wore green.”

Estral did not look pleased, and there was mad tapping and the squeak of chalk as she wrote. Still healing. You barely made it up the hill today.

“I did make it, though,” he replied, “and I recovered from it rather well.”

She wiped the slate clean with a rag and wrote, After a lengthy nap!!!

He noted the emphatic punctuation of her sentence. “Look, I won’t exert myself.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I will exert myself as little as feasible,” he amended. “Someone needs to be in communication with the wall guardians, and I seem to be that person. Too much time has already passed.”

She sighed, and wrote, I understand, but you’ll undo your rest.

“I’ve already spoken to Mender Forrest and he approves of me going.” Grudgingly, that was, but Alton didn’t share that part with Estral. “He’s sending all kinds of medicines and instructions for Leese, whom I am instructed to obey.”

Fine, she wrote. I’ll make sure you do.

“Wait, what? You can’t go, it’s too—” She gave him such a withering glare that he dared not conclude the sentence. “I mean,” he said, treading carefully lest she decide to knock him upside the head with the slate, “I thought you were going to Sacor City.”

I AM FIORI.

He knew when he had lost. “Indeed, you are, Golden Guardian.” He bowed. The Golden Guardian could wander wherever she willed, and he had no say in the matter. “I only mean that I worry about your safety because I love you.”

They stood there gazing at one another for a few moments.

Finally, he said, “I recommend, my lady, that you get moving and start packing. We leave at dawn.”

A look of triumph crossed her face and she dashed from the room.

Alton sat in an armchair, suddenly wearied. He couldn’t keep her away from the wall, but he’d do all he could to protect her, even if it killed him. Again.

ANCIENT PURPOSE

“The expenses are exorbitant,” the lord-mayor said as he pointed to a rendering of one of the designs for Sacor City’s new gates. They needed to be replaced after the damage they had received during the recent war with Second Empire.

Officials and generals peppered the mayor with questions, but Zachary Hillander, the high king of Sacoridia, hung back. He had already examined the designs in detail and was tired of endless dreary meetings full of bad news. He drifted to the window. The mayor’s second-story office looked out onto the Winding Way, the main street through Sacor City, and it was starting to snow, the season’s first. First snows, he thought, were always beautiful, clean and fluffy, and charged with change. But this year, it portended a difficult winter.

People hurried about their business down on the street. Carts, horses, and pedestrians all created a scene of ordered mayhem as they traveled in one direction or another, much like the shifting flurries that descended upon them.

It was an ordinary enough scene, but the city was just getting back on its feet after war, and there were challenges ahead. Shortages abounded, the most concerning of which was foodstuffs. The countryside under assault from the Darrow Raiders had forced farmers to flee their lands, leaving crops untended. Despite the rationing that had been imposed on the city’s inhabitants over the spring, summer, and fall, scarcity was going to be a problem over the winter. Rhovanny and the Under Kingdoms were happy to help, but at a price. The treasury was feeling the strain of fixing the wounds of the city, feeding the citizens and livestock of the realm, and maintaining the army, which he ordered to remain at full standing.

His counselor, Les Tallman, joined him at the window. “Ah, it is snowing. The clouds rather looked like it earlier.”

“It’s melting as soon as it touches the ground.” Zachary glanced back toward the mayor. He and his audience were leaning over the drawings.

“Tiresome, isn’t it?” Les said in a low voice. “Going round in circles and rehashing decisions that have already been made?”

“I should be training with my troops, but there is always some other meeting I must attend, some other urgent business that requires my attention.” That wasn’t even counting the difficulty of bringing the lord-governors to heel in their obligations to supply soldiers and arm them. More trouble much greater than the Darrow Raiders or Second Empire was coming, but they would not be swayed by a threat they could not see.

“We’re living in unusual times,” Les replied.

Les was a valued adviser and friend, but Zachary missed Laren Mapstone, colonel of the Green Riders, and his friend and confidant since boyhood. Her years of experience made her an invaluable adviser, but she’d been taken captive by the king of Varos who coveted her special ability as a “truth-teller.” It was too soon to hear anything of the rescue mission he had sent to Varos, but he prayed for word nevertheless.

Les leaned closer to the window and there was a surprised uplift to his eyebrows. “I say, is that Sir Karigan?”

Zachary gazed out once more. At first he could not see her, but then he’d been looking for a Rider in green astride a chestnut gelding. And yet, she stood out. Among the city folk hustling here and there, she drew his eye. A slim woman sat upon a tall, white, high-stepping stallion with a proud, arched neck. Instead of green, she wore a black longcoat draped along the stallion’s flanks, a waistcoat and breeches of silver-gray, and a neatly knotted white neck scarf. Her unbound hair had grown long enough to brush her shoulders.

But was it her?

She guided the nervous stallion expertly through the crowds. When he started to rear, she did not panic, but brought him down and continued forward. It was only when she glanced aside, her cheeks pink in the cold, and snow flecking her crown of brown hair, that he could clearly see the patch that covered her right eye, and knew with certainty it was her, Karigan G’ladheon.

The warmth of delight and desire rushed through him, but it was tempered by frustration. Despite the permission, nay, the encouragement his wife had given for him and Karigan to pursue a relationship, this was the closest he had been to her in months. She’d taken leave to attend to clan matters in Corsa, and he, too, had been traveling to reinforce his authority among the balky lord-governors and to see conditions down at the D’Yer Wall.

Her appearance provoked mystery. Why was she garbed so? Where was she going, and from where had she acquired the horse? The stallion pranced and tossed his head, but she kept marvelous control of him with nearly imperceptible cues from hands and legs.

Zachary would not use his position to summon her to him so she could answer these questions. He refused to use his power as a king over a servant thus, just to see her. It was not how he wished it to be between them.

Not that there was much between them currently. His wife’s pronouncement that they be together with her approval only seemed to have the opposite effect. The unspoken, once spoken, only produced more awkwardness between them, and a desire to demonstrate there’d been no dishonor to queen or realm. It left only longing.

All too soon she was gone from view, gone like a passing dream, and he saw only the milling, bustling traffic crowding the scene. He turned back toward the mayor who was once more complaining about the lack of resources for all the repairs the city needed.

“My Lord-Mayor,” Zachary said, and all eyes turned to him. “There is a quantity of lumber coming from the royal forestry reserve west of the town of North. My forester there has personally selected strong, old oaks that can be used to remake the city gates. There will be a quantity of pine, too, that can be used in rebuilding the lower city. I should not worry about the expense for these raw materials, for there will be none to the city treasury.”

The relief on the mayor’s face was plain, and he bowed low. “That is the best of news, Your Majesty. A most generous gift.”

“It is no gift,” Zachary said, “but a necessity. The city needs its gates intact, and you must be mindful that the city will still be providing the labor.”

The meeting rambled on, but Zachary kept glancing out the window wondering if Karigan might reappear down on the street. He noticed Luin Prime Brynston, the head of all moon priests in Sacoridia, who was also in attendance at the meeting, watching him. He made a concerted effort to step away from the window and apply his attention to what the mayor was saying.

Zachary did not care for the luin prime. Brynston pursued a conservative philosophy and preached stridently against the evils of magic, a worldview his priests then took to their congregants. Estora favored him because he came from her home province of Coutre where he had served her family, and she’d seen to his ascension to luin prime. They were friends, though Zachary wondered how genuine the friendship was on Brynston’s part, and how much was opportunistic access to her power as queen.

When the meeting at long last concluded, the luin prime strode up to Zachary. He offered his ring to be kissed, but Zachary ignored it, a blunt reminder to Brynston, and any who might observe them, as to who was the head religious authority in Sacoridia. When Smidhe Hillander ascended the throne over two hundred years ago, he named himself primary in the eyes of the gods and prohibited, by law, priests from attaining any office in the halls of power after centuries of just that had led to undue religious influence on the crown and unprecedented corruption.

Naturally the moon priests were not best pleased, but as the generations passed by, they were left to manage their own affairs without interference unless their work ran counter to the crown’s authority. The crown, however, used care in its relations with the moon priests, for their influence among the devout of the crown’s subjects was not inconsiderable, and to act rashly risked alienating them.

Brynston smiled slightly, a sardonic curl to the corners of his mouth, and gave Zachary a polite, if shallow, bow.

“Your Majesty, I noticed that something outside seemed to be drawing your attention.”

“It is snowing.”

“Ah, the first snowfall always does elicit excitement. We should pray, however, this winter is not so fierce. I fear there will be enough suffering even if it is a mild one.”

The priests of the city’s chapel of the moon, Zachary thought, would want for nothing with the tithes they received from wealthy and poor alike.

“Was there something you wished to speak to me about?” he asked. “I was preparing to depart.”

“Well, there is a matter I wish to address. Frankly, I am concerned about the prisoner releases and that these Second Empire adherents of the one god will be reintegrating into our communities. If they are truly to become Sacoridians, they must be converted.”

This view of Brynston’s had been communicated to Zachary by his proxies in court. “No.”

“No?” Brynston said with a flicker of displeasure.

“Do you misunderstand the word?” Zachary asked.

“Er, no, Your Majesty. Your response is definitive, but perhaps made without counsel.”

“Then perhaps you consider me unschooled in the matter.”

Flurries battered the window as the wind shifted. A draft of cold air crept through the room.

After a moment in which Brynston seemed to consider how to respond to his king’s stern demeanor, he bowed. “Of course not, Your Majesty, but I wish you would consider my views on the matter.”

“I am well aware of your views,” Zachary replied. “And though my answer should have been enough for you and I should not have to explain, it is obvious that you require an explanation from my own lips.”

“My lord—”

“Silence.”

Everyone who remained in the room stilled and quieted at his sharp rebuke. Brynston was clearly taken aback and unused to being censured. In his capacity as luin prime, he would ordinarily be the one who doled out orders and reprimands. This, and it came from Zachary who was known as a reasonable and even-tempered king not given to fits of ill-humor. To Zachary’s mind, it did not hurt to exercise the occasional bout of kingly ire, especially with the likes of the luin prime who thought too well of himself.

“It is simple,” Zachary said. “Sacoridia is not closed to other nations. We trade vigorously and peacefully with those outside our borders, and many migrate here to live and work. Sacor City alone is home to many peoples from abroad who endeavor to live harmoniously with their neighbors, bringing with them new ideas, labor, and businesses. They would not be here, and we would not benefit from their presence, if we forced our beliefs upon them. Certainly, some do convert of their own volition, yes?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. But Second Empire is not made up of newcomers. They are not looking to live harmoniously with us. They started a war.”

“I am rather well aware of the war,” Zachary replied with an acerbic note to his voice. “But my impression from the people themselves, the ordinary folk who were not in charge, is that they are quite willing to resume their quiet way of life if given a chance. Just as we would not force conversion on newcomers, forcing it upon the followers of the one god would only embitter them. It would make them less willing to reintegrate, if not stir up another uprising of Second Empire.”

“Meanwhile,” Brynston countered, “their priests can propagandize for them to do just that.”

“We are being careful with our releases, seeking those who are not apt to cause trouble, including among their priests.”

“And what of the magic users among them?”

This, Zachary thought, was growing tiresome. He signaled to his servant to bring him his topcoat and help him into it. Perhaps the luin prime would take the hint. Others in the room did, and the floor creaked and groaned with their footsteps as they hurried to leave.

“What of them?” he asked.

“Was not one of the leaders of Second Empire a necromancer?”

“Grandmother. Yes, she was. But she is dead, and no others have shown an inclination for dangerous sorcery. If they had, I’m certain it would have happened during our recent battle.”

“What of the girl?” Brynston said. “She was used by Second Empire to take the Eagle’s Pass Keep.”

Zachary refrained from sighing as he tugged his gloves on. “You refer to the one known as Lala. We searched exhaustively for her, but we can only guess that she did not survive out in the wilderness.”

Brynston did not look convinced, and Zachary could not say he was either, but there was not much more they could do until Lala made her presence known, if she ever did. In the meantime, his focus must shift to defending the realm from the looming threat in Blackveil.

“During the years following the Long War,” Brynston said, not to be deterred, “my predecessor of that era assembled an order, a brotherhood, to hunt down magic users to purify the realm. It would seem to me it was high time to restore those warriors to their ancient purpose.”

In the era after the Long War, known as the Scourge, disease and hunger devastated the population. More insidious, however, was the death rate among magic users. It was high enough to have nearly caused their extinction. This had been no accident.

Currently, Zachary’s guard, Fastion, stood by the door keeping silent watch. Attired all in black and girded with a longsword, he and his fellow “Black Shield” warriors were so highly trained that they were considered human weapons. Consequently, at some point in their history, they simply became known as “Weapons.” They served not just to protect Sacoridia’s monarchs and its royal dead, but had always been charged with a higher purpose of preserving the sanctity of Sacoridia itself. Fastion’s hawklike gaze almost imperceptibly searched the room for trouble, and should any arise, he would instantly respond with all his training and skill, woe be to any who dared challenge him. The ancient order of warriors Brynston spoke of that had been responsible for purifying the realm of magic users so very long ago had never died out or disbanded. No, it remained alive and well.

AN ARRANGEMENT

Robert Hollingdale tapped on the door, and at the muffled instruction to enter, he peered inside. The office was immense with large windows allowing daylight to flood in and accentuate its fine architectural details and all the art treasures and books displayed on the walls, shelves, and pediments. It was meant to impress, and it did so admirably.

In the center of the room, the sub-chief of his clan sat with her elbows propped on the oversized desk and rubbed her temples. Charts and ledgers, invoices and inventories, lay spread out before her.

“Madam,” he said, “there are some people here to see you.”

Rider Sir Karigan G’ladheon looked at him with her one keen eye. The other was covered by a patch, an unfortunate defect of the otherwise comely young woman, and the result of her ill-advised venture of joining His Majesty’s Messenger Service. He would never forget the scene that day over three years ago as they stood before King Zachary and she gave up everything, the luxuries, the secure future provided by her father, and her active role as sub-chief, all to be a lowly messenger. Robert had gaped in disbelief as she removed her clan rings from her fingers one at a time and handed them over to the cargo master, along with the medallion that marked her position as sub-chief of Clan G’ladheon. And for what? Danger, war, and injuries, just to deliver the king’s letters? Of course, she had comported herself heroically and had been knighted, but that seemed little consolation in exchange for all she had given up.

She was here now, though, when the clan needed her, and her status as sub-chief reinstated, at least temporarily. It mattered.

“Who is it this time?” she asked in a weary voice. “Another debt collector?”

“No. The people claim personal business with Chief G’ladheon and will not be turned away even though I informed them he was not here. They insist upon seeing whoever is in charge. They say they’ve come all the way from Black Island.”

There was a glint of interest in her eye as he’d thought there would be. Black Island was the ancestral home of the G’ladheons.

“I know it has been a long day for you,” he continued, “and I can send them away if you like.” They were a bit, well, rough. Not the usual well-heeled visitor that ordinarily came to this office.

“Did they give a name?” she asked.

“Turval. Do you know it?”

She shook her head. “Send them in. I could use a break from staring at these figures.”

Their affiliation with Black Island must have piqued her interest enough to see them despite her weariness. He brought in the trio, a man and woman of middle age, and a younger man in his mid- to late twenties. Their son, he thought. They gazed about the airy office in awe. Attired in woolens and oilskins, and heavy boots that clomped on the floor, they looked more ready to haul nets out on some offshore fishing bank than to present themselves to the daughter of the premier merchant of Sacoridia.

Sir Karigan folded her hands atop the desk and appraised the visitors coolly. The office was beset with an uneasy silence.

“Is there something I may help you with?” she asked at last.

Robert decided to stay and stood just inside the doorway to observe the exchange, in case she required his assistance.

“Well,” the older man began, a little nervously, Robert thought. “I—”

“Kariny Grey, is that you?” the woman blurted.

A stunned silence followed, and a glance to Sir Karigan showed a slight paling of her cheeks.

“Clare,” the man said, “what are you saying?”

The woman passed a trembling hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s like . . . It’s like seeing a ghost. For a moment . . .” She stared directly at Sir Karigan. “You look very much like her.”

“Sake of the gods, woman,” the man said, “what are you on about?”

Clare turned to her husband. “This is her, Edwin Turval. The one we came for—Kariny and Stevic’s girl.”

Edwin looked at Sir Karigan in startlement, but the younger man’s expression was, to Robert’s mind, more interesting, a mixture of disgust and eagerness.

“Is she right?” Edwin asked. “You’re Stevic’s girl?”

She stood, wariness in her gaze now, and she placed her hand over her heart and gave a slight bow. “I am Karigan G’ladheon, sub-chief of Clan G’ladheon, at your service.”

“I was expecting someone more . . .” Edwin swallowed the words he’d been about to say. Robert guessed that he had been expecting someone more demure, less commanding and confident, maybe younger. Someone more . . . girlish. A young lady who was not missing an eye. The man doffed his cap. “My apologies. We didn’t expect, that is to say, we hadn’t known you’d be here, as sub-chief. Last we heard, you gave all that up. My name’s Edwin Turval. My wife, Clare, and my son, Vernas. We come to see your pa, but this fellow—” He jabbed his finger in Robert’s direction. “—said he’s gone.”

“If you’ve business with my father,” she replied, “I am afraid you must address it with me at this time. I am overseeing the business of Clan G’ladheon in his absence.”

Good, Robert thought. She was being discreet. Not that it was a secret Stevic G’ladheon was off on a trading mission in the far western seas, but she wasn’t trusting these people with details.

“Heard something about that in Corsa,” Edwin said. “Wasn’t sure if it was true, so we came up here to his other office. Real sorry your aunt has been sick.”

She drew her eyebrows together. “Master Turval, I am very busy. If you could please state your business?”

“I guess you got no time for your own people, eh?”

Wisely, she did not respond.

“Well, then. Here it is. I am a good friend of your grandsire, Sutton G’ladheon. Very good, and about twenty years ago, we made an arrangement that benefitted us both greatly.”

Curiosity crossed her face, but was quickly shielded with a neutral expression as if to deny any interest in the Black Island G’ladheons. “Any arrangement you’ve made with the man who was my grandsire has nothing to do with Clan G’ladheon. Sutton G’ladheon, and his kin residing on Black Island, are not members of the clan, nor are they considered family.”

And so it had been, Robert thought, since the day a young Stevic had sailed from the island to find his fortune elsewhere and never to return.

“Well, sore that is,” Edwin muttered. “They’re good people, and your grandsire is a great man, but I know the feud between your sire and grandsire is long-standing. You should know, however, this arrangement has everything to do with you.”

“I’m sorry, Master Turval, but this interview is over and I wish you a good day. Robert, will you please show them out?”

“Of course, madam,” Robert replied, stepping forward. “Master—”

“Now, you wait just a minute,” Edwin shouted. “I’m not finished.” He pulled a document from his pocket. The ribbons of several seals dangled from it. “I have here a sworn document, all legal and everything, and no chit of a girl is gonna tell me what to do.”

Robert bristled, but Sir Karigan merely lifted an eyebrow. “Robert, perhaps you should inform Constable Niles that we require his assistance in escorting the Turvals out?”

“Immediately, mad—”

“I’m sorry!” Edwin cried. “I’m sorry I snapped. My wife tells me I can get a mite sharp at times, and I forgot myself. Please don’t get the constable. We’ve had a long journey to get here, and after everything, to be told to leave, it is hard to bear. Please, just hear me out.”

With more patience than Robert himself could have summoned, she replied, “All right. Speak, and then you leave.”

“Good, good. Fine. It’s like this. Sutton and I being good friends, and the top men on the island, formed an alliance. It’s been profitable. We got a fleet of fishing boats together and sell our catch up and down the coast, even in the Under Kingdoms. We don’t got wealth like this—” He waved vaguely at the office’s interior. “—but we’ve done well.”

“I don’t see—”

“I’m still having my say,” Edwin said, “and you need to hear it because of the law.”

“I am losing my patience, Master Turval. Get to the point.”

The man nodded. “This is my legal arrangement with Sutton.” He waved the document about again. “The lynchpin of this arrangement is you. The document says that when the granddaughter of Sutton G’ladheon was of age, she would marry my son, Vernas, here. Unfortunately, due to one thing or another, we couldn’t get here sooner, and I would say, girl, you are well past marrying age. Unfortunate. You’ve got airs, but I reckon Vernas will make you into a proper wife.”

Robert was aghast. The man was claiming a marriage alliance? Sir Karigan did not argue or question the islander. She simply sat behind the desk and sighed, looking more annoyed than surprised.

“Vernas,” Edwin continued, “will be a good, strong husband for you, which clearly you need, and you’ll make many children together who will be healthy and well-provided for, and carry on the Turval name.”

“Robert,” Sir Karigan said calmly, “would you please look over the document and advise me as to its legitimacy?”

“Yes, madam.”

“It’s legitimate,” Edwin countered, holding the paper to his chest.

“Robert,” she said, “is educated in the reading of legal documents. I heard you out, so courtesy dictates you allow my secretary to read it, and counsel me on what apparently affects my life so dramatically.”

Edwin reluctantly handed the document over. The room grew silent while Robert examined the language of the arrangement, the seals, and the signatures. Edwin’s was a thumbprint.

“Well, Robert?” she asked.

He licked his lips. “It is a little cruder than what I am accustomed to seeing, but the language is correct, and it appears to be properly witnessed and signed, including the signature of Sutton G’ladheon. It appears to follow all the conventions of a lawful agreement, but . . .” He hesitated.

“Yes?” she said.

“I am no law speaker,” he replied, “and would recommend further examination by one.”

Edwin snatched the paper out of his hand. “Oh, it’s lawful, all right. Any law speaker would tell you so. And what it means, girl, is that you’re family. We plan to take you back to the island with us.”

She leaned forward. “In that you are mistaken. My grandsire holds no rights to determine my future in this manner. Only my father could approve such a thing.”

“He’s not here, is he?” Edwin growled. “And the father of your father is the head of the family, and it is law.”

“I disagree,” she said, “but there is one who supersedes any head of my family, rendering your document irrelevant.”

“What?” Edwin blinked stupidly. “Who?”

“Our king.”

Robert silently cheered. Her position as a Green Rider was coming in useful after all.

“I am the king’s own messenger,” she continued, “a Green Rider. My service to the realm prevents me from moving to Black Island and marrying.”

“You will quit.”

She smiled, but it was not a friendly smile. “It does not work like that. I am beholden to the king’s service for the foreseeable future. If you have a problem with that, you may go before him at his next public audience.”

Robert wanted to laugh at the expression on Edwin’s face as he glanced at his son and wife, then to the document in his hand, before returning his gaze to Sir Karigan.

“I will—I will get a law speaker and we’ll see about this!” he sputtered.

Imagining the scene of this fisherman standing before King Zachary and demanding the hand of his royal messenger in marriage to the sullen-looking Vernas only deepened Robert’s amusement.

“You do that,” she said. “Robert, show them out, and if they won’t go, Constable Niles can help.”

Robert was glad that this time the man did not resist, though he seethed all the way out. Robert locked the door to ensure they did not return uninvited.

When once more he entered the office, he found Sir Karigan resting her head on the desk.

“Madam?” he inquired.

“Why?” she asked plaintively. “Why are people always trying to marry me off?”

MERCHANT AND RIDER

Karigan knew, of course, exactly why “people” were always trying to marry her off. She was heir to the chiefdom of Clan G’ladheon, the daughter of a wealthy merchant. Marry her, and the G’ladheon wealth was theirs. Edwin Turval had practically salivated as he gazed at her. If only he knew the truth, she thought.

She rubbed her temples again and closed her eyes. An uneasiness had settled over her that had nothing to do with the Turvals or clan business, like an icy breath on the back of her neck and darkness falling across her vision. She felt more than heard a whisper laden with murk and rot calling, calling out to that which should remain entombed. There was a distinct pinching of her Rider brooch and she shivered.

“Are you all right, madam?” Robert asked.

She opened her eye surprised to find herself in the daylit world. After a moment’s disorientation, she replied, “Yes, yes, I am fine.” She shook off the darkness that was already dissipating like a dream. “I am just thinking that we have a week to close down this office. You will have to begin without me.”

“I will handle it,” he replied. “Anything else?”

Her relief was immense that she had so capable a helper. Before she’d become a Green Rider, he’d been her secretary. But he was much more, a member of the clan who had reliably served her father for years. When she’d started overseeing clan business in her father’s absence, he’d stepped back into the role. Loyalty, trustworthiness, and reliability, she had discovered, were not so common traits outside of the messenger service, which made Robert all the more valuable an asset.

She passed him a key across the desk, then took a sip of the tea he’d brought her. The headache still plagued her, but the soothing herbal blend helped.

“That’s the key to the place on Ripley Street,” she told him. The new office was a considerable downgrade, but they could no longer afford this one as large as it was, and located in a prestigious section of the middle city. She would have closed down the Sacor City office entirely, leaving only those in Corsa, but she needed someplace to conduct clan business in Sacor City. Her aunts—her father’s four sisters—would do what they could in Corsa, but they needed her help.

“If I may be so bold,” Robert said, “you are doing very well under the circumstances. In fact, I would say you are a natural, just like your father. I have never understood why you gave up your position to be a messenger.”

She smiled ruefully. “It’s a long story, and perhaps one day I’ll return to the merchanting business full time, but for now, my work as sub-chief is temporary as I must serve the king.”

“I understand.”

But it was clear he did not. Many involved in business could not understand why she’d give up a successful and profitable position to serve as a lowly messenger. For them, it was more important to achieve personal reward rather than work for a greater purpose. Joining the Green Riders had been a calling, not a personal choice. In fact, it had not been a choice at all, but as she had accepted her role as king’s messenger over the years, it had opened her mind to the idea of serving not only her king, but the realm as a whole.

She gazed at the office with all its fine furnishings and decor. It was impressive, but impersonal, and all for show, her father’s way of reinforcing his image as a successful merchant. Then she glanced at the gold-rimmed teacup in her hand and sighed.

“There is one more thing you can do,” she told Robert.

“Yes?”

“See if you can get rid of all the bric-a-brac, including this tea service. Might be able to get a decent price for it.”

“Won’t it displease your father?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think it’s anything that has sentimental value to him.” Her teacup settled onto its saucer with a clink. “Besides, he’s the one who got us into this mess in the first place. We need to bring in any capital we can, any way we can.”

Robert nodded. “I will see what I can do, then.”

It was a faint hope that they’d profit from the sale of the office’s contents. People were still recovering from the effects of the Darrow Raiders and the war with Second Empire, and times were hard for many. Maybe some up-and-coming aristocrat would need to furnish his new estate. In any case, any income at all would benefit the clan’s situation.

“I will just remind you that you are due to go before the guild next week,” Robert said.

Oh, joy, she thought. As if her first audience with the guild’s puffed-up triumvirate had gone so well. She was definitely going to have a few words with her father when he returned.

• • •

The stallion’s name was Aspen. He was a fine-bred, gaited horse that had testicles for brains. It did not help he hadn’t been ridden much since her father left for Varos. She’d sell Aspen, too, but she knew how attached her father was to his horses. She could, after all, relate, and she couldn’t do that to him. Besides, for the time being, riding Aspen to manage clan affairs rather than her messenger horse, Condor, helped maintain separation between clan business and the realm’s business. She was acutely aware of how the intersection of her two lives—merchant and king’s messenger—could arouse suspicion over conflict of interest.

Clan G’ladheon, of course, did business with the realm, primarily supplying the Green Riders with their uniforms and gear. Her father had done this at no expense to the royal coffers, though more recently Zachary had relaxed taxes on the clan in appreciation of its generosity. That alone could be construed as favoritism by those wanting to make trouble for Zachary or her father.

It was a relief when the stable came into view, for Aspen had put himself into quite a prancing huff as they worked their way through the late day traffic.

One of the grooms stepped out into the stable yard to take command of the stallion. Fortunately, her father had paid a full year ahead for boarding, and she would not have to come up with the funds to cover it, especially since it was one of the better stables in the city.

“Would you like me to tack up Condor?” the groom asked.

“Yes, please,” she replied, and she hurried across the street to the Wayward Inn where her father had also paid ahead for surprisingly modest, but comfortable, rooms. He might pretend to ostentation to impress those with whom he did business, but his tastes, in truth, tended to be more low key.

The innkeeper gave her a cheery greeting as she dashed up the stairs, and once through the door to her father’s suite of rooms, she headed to the bed chamber. In the wardrobe hung her change of clothes, a soft linen shirt and loose trousers, and a bulky sweater knitted by her Aunt Stace. It was much less formal than what she’d worn as a “merchant,” and far more comfortable, the type of attire she ordinarily wore on her rest day.

In her role as merchant, she must look the part of a sub-chief with the finest materials, modern cut, and finely tailored fit. She carefully hung her neck scarf over a peg in the wardrobe, her fingers slipping along the length of soft silk. There was a part of her, a darker self, that she drew on to do all she must as she fulfilled her role as sub-chief of a merchant clan. She could not present herself as the privileged daughter to whom all had been given, and anyone who expected some callow schoolgirl pretending at being the sub-chief must be made to regret their misperception.

She must prove herself the leader of the clan in her father’s absence, pressuring debtors and pushing back collectors of debt. She must cajole suppliers and seek buyers. Perhaps most intimidating of all, she had to confront rough longshoremen, caravan guards and drovers, and sailors. And finally, she must oversee her father’s varied investments in shipping, which were in the hands of shifty brokers who wouldn’t think twice about cheating an innocent.

She disrobed and carefully hung her formal merchant garb in the wardrobe. The state of affairs in which her father had left the business had proved challenging, to say the least. Their warehouses stood nearly empty with little to trade since he had taken most goods with him to Varos, and an underhanded accountant who, while her aunts were distracted by the illness of their eldest sister, emptied the clan’s coffers and ran off, leaving them nearly in ruin. As she changed into her comfortable rest day clothes, she thought that if she ever caught up with that accountant, she’d show him no mercy. She had, in fact, hired a pair of those rough longshoremen to hunt him down.

It was her job to keep the business alive in a time of decrease, when commerce in the realm had been damaged by war and it would take time to recover. Her father would come back soon. He had to. She just had to keep it all going until then.

A shadow stood just outside her peripheral vision. It was her other self who sometimes appeared to her, the result of a spell cast by an unnatural child named Lala, the granddaughter of Second Empire’s former leader. Karigan’s other self often encouraged her to embrace her darker inclinations. It was the side of her that would not show that accountant any mercy.

With all that she contended with, running the business, facing all the obstacles and difficult people, she could see how it could change a person, how one could permanently assume the persona of that other self. It deepened her appreciation for her father who, despite it all, retained his generous and good nature when the demands of the business could have hardened his heart. Nor had he succumbed to greed. Many, in fact, benefitted from his generosity, and she hadn’t realized just how much until she closely examined the books.

She closed the wardrobe doors and sighed, ready to make her transition from merchant back to Green Rider. It was impossible to leave her other self behind, but there was separation. Attired in ordinary clothes, she felt more herself, could feel the complications of her day and the stress easing. Being a king’s messenger was, in many ways, less complicated than being the sub-chief of Clan G’ladheon.

Except, she thought, as she skipped down the stairs, her work as a messenger was likely to become more complicated. She believed there was going to be a reckoning where Mornhavon the Black was concerned. She felt it like an ache in her bones.

• • •

When she returned to Rider stables on the castle grounds, she led Condor into his stall and patted his neck. She’d put a lot of her frustration into grooming him, giving him a good deep curry and stiff brushing, throwing her muscles into it, until his chestnut hide gleamed. It was balm for any stress that remained, and he had groaned in contentment as she worked. He nudged at her coat pocket until she produced half an oatcake that had been the remains of her breakfast. She laughed as he daintily lipped it off her palm and made a show of munching it down. Afterward he nudged her for more.

“Silly horse, that’s all I had.”

He lifted his head just then, ears pricked forward, and gave a full-throated whinny as horses trotted into the stables. Hep, the stablemaster, whistled and called the horses in, for it was feeding time. The horses milled in the aisles between stalls and she helped sort them all out. Then she assisted with feeding, scooping grain into buckets while Hep threw flakes of hay into stalls. She moved warily around Anna’s mare, Maddie, who watched her with her equally wary single eye, and she took some extra time with Colonel Mapstone’s two geldings, Bluebird and Loon. The pair ate well enough and were responsive to her words and caresses. Messengers and their horses formed special bonds, and the horses were able to sense when something was wrong with their Riders. Loon and Bluebird’s good attitude told Karigan that the colonel must be all right.

After supplying each horse with fresh water, she found Hep staring out into the deepening dusk toward the pasture, a pensive look on his face. Snow whirled in through the open doors around him.

She stood beside him and followed his gaze. Snow alighted on her hair and cheeks. “I don’t think it’ll amount to anything. Ground’s still too warm.”

He grunted but continued to stare outward as if searching for something.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Dunno. Thought . . .” He shook his head. “Nothing, I guess.”

She pulled her coat closed as a gust of wind sent a cloud of flurries inward. Hep didn’t move.

“Are you sure it’s nothing?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Could’ve sworn there was another horse out there. A youngster, maybe, running and kicking up its heels. I couldn’t quite see it, thought maybe I heard the hooves, but . . . then nothing.”

“All the horses are accounted for,” Karigan replied, “unless another Rider has arrived.”

“No Riders have come in. Gah, I’m just having a fancy, I guess, with all this snow blowing around.”

He thanked her for her help, then withdrew into the stables to close up. She wondered about his “fancy” as she set off into the flurries. Hep was about as sensible and grounded as anyone she knew, and it was unusual for him to be seeing things.

As she walked along the pasture fence, she thought she heard the plod of hooves. She paused and stared into the pasture, but saw only the snow descending in waves in the quickly diminishing light, and heard only the wind whistling across castle grounds.

Hep’s “fancy,” it would seem, was infectious.

UNKNOWN INTENTIONS

Two days later, Ghost Kitty sat on Karigan’s desk and watched her carefully ink figures into the ledger, mischief in his eyes. It was bad enough she had to personally handle the clan’s accounts, but now the books of the Green Riders needed reconciling. Poor Mara minded the books when Karigan and Daro were unavailable, but it was not her strong suit, especially when the castle and city were under siege by the enemy, as they had been in the summer. She’d done her best, but receipts and entries were missing, and the figures were a mess, and so it had been left to Karigan to sort it all out.

She stroked Ghost Kitty’s cheek and was rewarded with loud purring. At least purposeful deceit had not been at play, she reflected, unlike the clan accounts.

The bookkeeping and assisting Tegan with Chief Rider duties kept her close to home. She rarely left the castle except on rest days to attend to clan business. She wasn’t absolutely sure, but she’d a sneaking suspicion someone up the chain did not wish for her to go away on long message errands. Someone very high up. And yet, she couldn’t discount the fact that in the colonel’s absence, the Rider officers, Mara, Connly, and Tegan, were forced to take over her responsibilities in addition to their own. It was not surprising they’d need help and that certain duties would trickle down.

Karigan rubbed her tired eye. She was glad to assist where she could, though she wished for some other assignment than keeping the books just for a change of pace. At least she wasn’t out in the city, in uniform, where someone would invariably recognize her as the “Spirit of Light,” the one who, with the use of her moonstone, had guided hundreds to safety as the lower city burned. She’d even been approached by people wishing her to bless them. She did her best to explain she was no Spirit of Light, but an ordinary messenger. It did not, however, seem to discourage them. Fortunately, no one recognized her when she went into the city in civilian clothes.

She heaved a long sigh, determined to keep chipping away at the Rider accounts, and gods be damned, she would not stop until she restored the mess to perfect order even if all the denizens of Blackveil fell upon her.

Ghost Kitty reached out to paw the inkpot.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” She grabbed it, and he retracted his paw to lick it as if that had been his intention all along. “You are not a help.”

He ignored her and jumped to the floor with a thump and left, rubbing his side against the doorframe on his way out. Her chair creaked as she sat back and massaged the nape of her neck. She’d been hovering over the books too long and needed a break. She was considering whether to make another pot of tea when a Green Foot runner appeared in her doorway.

“Captain Connly asks you to come to the throne room,” the boy said.

“Isn’t this the day of the king’s public audience?”

“Aye, ma’am. Captain says not to waste time.”

What now?

As directed by her captain, she did not “waste time,” but hastened from her quarters in the Rider wing to the throne room. The guards let her pass without a challenge. The throne room was long with high, narrow windows. Shafts of late afternoon daylight from the west side fell upon clusters of courtiers and citizens seeking their king’s counsel. The chamber was not nearly as crowded as it would have been earlier in the day, so she slipped easily to near the front to see what was going on.

Zachary sat upon his throne chair looking pensive. The queen’s throne was vacant, and Karigan idly wondered where Estora was. Castellan Javien stood near the thrones reading through a document. A tense silence emanated from Zachary, and onlookers who stood around her murmured and shifted restlessly.

“This document is in order, Your Majesty,” the castellan said.

“Of course it’s in order,” said another man, who stepped forward.

She groaned inwardly. Edwin Turval. He had called her bluff and taken his case before the king to force the issue of her marriage to his son. She then picked out Clare and Vernas among those in the very front.

Connly, who had stood near the dais as an adviser, or at least a Green Rider presence for those who’d been accustomed to seeing Colonel Mapstone, spotted her and made his way toward her. When he reached her, he asked in a quiet voice, “Do you know these people?”

“They showed up at my father’s office a couple days ago,” she replied.

“It’s all very lawful,” Edwin was telling Zachary, “and Sutton G’ladheon is the head of the family.”

Connly shook his head. “You find more trouble than a cat,” he told her.

She flashed back to Ghost Kitty reaching for her inkpot. “Not nearly, and I didn’t go looking for it. It found me.”

“Either way,” he replied, “I have never known anyone who attracts more trouble than one person ought to.”

He had no idea.

Zachary sat as stonily still and quiet as one of his Weapons, observing the proceedings. He looked regal and forbidding in his royal cloak and fillet, though little of his thoughts could be divined from his expression. She was not worried that he’d relent to the wishes of the Turvals and release her from the Riders so she could marry. No, she was more interested in how he would reject their claim.

“You do know that Rider G’ladheon serves at the king’s pleasure,” Counselor Tallman told Edwin.

“We discussed it,” he replied. “If His Majesty won’t release her, then Vernas will live here with her until such time as her duty is done.”

A clever response, she thought, but unlikely to sway Zachary.

Zachary subtly shifted his gaze to her. Somehow, he’d been aware of her arrival and picked her out of the crowd. “That is an interesting solution,” he said, “fulfilling the needs of her service to the crown as well as to her new husband.”

What? Karigan screamed inside.

Edwin beamed in triumph.

Zachary’s gaze shifted back to Edwin. “However, I will not allow the scheme to proceed without her consent, or that of her father and her other family.”

There was a pause in which everyone in the chamber stilled themselves as if to work out his meaning.

“Other family?” Edwin asked, voicing the question that must be on the tips of their tongues.

“Yes. My understanding is that Stevic G’ladheon broke with his father long ago and does not recognize him as a member of the clan, and therefore does not answer to him. Thus, Sutton G’ladheon is not the head of her family, a clan that does not include the island G’ladheons.” Before Edwin could sputter a protest, Zachary continued, “As for her other family . . .”

Oh, no, she thought. He was going to announce it in front of all these people. Not that her unconventional “adoption” by the royal House of Santanara of the Eletians was a secret for it had been impossible to contain, but it was not widely known and she preferred that those who had heard about it weren’t reminded.

“This summer she was adopted into the house of an important family whose head would certainly wish a say in this matter.”

“How can this be?” Edwin demanded. “Who is this man who claims her?”

Karigan braced herself, but Zachary simply replied, “He is beyond your reach.”

“Beyond my reach? But Your Majesty, you are the highest lord of the land. If I can speak to you here on this day, how can any other man be beyond my reach?”

“Because he is in Eletia.”

Karigan wished she could see Edwin’s face. Murmuring erupted around her. The story of her being named a scion of the House of Santanara was perhaps not as well-known as she had thought.

Edwin asked, “How is that even possible? Eletia is legend. Those people no longer exist.”

Surprise briefly flitted across Zachary’s features.

“Are you calling your king a liar?” Castellan Javien demanded in a deceptively mild tone.

Edwin bowed. “N-no, of course not. But . . . Eletians? Surely bedtime tales for children.”

Karigan was so accustomed to the idea of Eletians back in the world, had even visited Eletia, that she had forgotten their return was relatively recent and that more isolated regions, like Black Island, might not have heard the news.

“They have always been here,” Zachary said, “even before our own folk, and they were our allies during the Long War. They never left the world, though they kept to themselves. We all thought they had vanished for good, but now we know that is not the case. They are our allies once more as we face the resurgence of Mornhavon the Black, and Karigan G’ladheon is an important link in that alliance, for she has been formally adopted into Eletia’s ruling house. Behold, Lady Winterlight of the House of Santanara.”

There it was, the pronouncement before all these people, and it could not be taken back, forgotten, or denied. Heat rose up from her collar into her face as everyone followed the king’s gaze and stared, parting a little so that she stood alone in a clearing. Courtiers gave her reassessing glances—some rather cold and calculating—and murmured among themselves, the cogs and wheels of political machinations no doubt whirring in their brains. The common folk present for the audience looked over one another’s shoulders to see the oddity of a Sacoridian Eletian. One or two bowed or curtsied to her.

Dear gods, she thought. Nothing would ever be the same again. Lady Winterlight would now be too well known.

As for the Turvals, they gaped at her. Edwin turned to Zachary. “Is this lawful?”

Zachary stared down at him. “It is not for Us to judge what is lawful in the land of Our ally, but We respect their judgment. We suggest, Master Turval, that you return to your island and find another, more suitable match for your son, and do not broach this matter with Us again.”

Castellan Javien tapped his staff on the floor. “You are dismissed.”

Edwin hastily bowed and backed away from the throne. He drew his wife and son away with him. The expression on his face was unreadable as he took one last look at her. And just like that, the issue of a marriage contract with the Turvals was dropped.

Connly shook his head beside her. “Like a cat,” he muttered; then he returned to his place beside the king’s dais.

She was about to leave when she overheard the next petitioner say, “—attacked by dragons.”

Many in the throne room laughed, but not Zachary. “You are certain these were dragons?” he asked.

“A survivor was brought to Lord Arey,” the man replied.

The throne room hushed. Karigan knew Zachary would not want to cause panic among the people, so he would handle the topic of dragons with delicacy.

“The waters off Arey can be treacherous,” he said, “and many ships have met their demise there. Might this sailor, in the terror of his ship breaking up, have imagined seeing a dragon caused the wreck?”

It was a moment before Lord Arey’s messenger spoke again. “It is not the first such incident that has been reported, my lord. The survivor is credible. In any case, I’ve Lord Arey’s letter for you.”

Javien accepted the letter and presented it to Zachary. Zachary did not open it. “Please refresh yourself in our kitchens,” he told the messenger, “and await a response.”

The man bowed and strode from the throne room.

It was time for Karigan to leave, as well. However, if she thought the topic of dragons would make people forget what was said of her Eletian status, she was to be mistaken.

As she turned to leave the throne room, people stared curiously at her. One gentleman intercepted her.

“My lady,” he said with a bow. “I am Lord—”

“I’m sorry,” she interrupted. “I must return to duty.” She hurried out of the throne room and did not look back.

Titles were trouble. They brought unwanted attention and responsibility, and in the case of Dama Cearing Asai’riel, the Lady Winterlight, the weight of unknown intentions. The reason for Crown Prince Jametari adopting her into the House of Santanara was a mystery not only to her, but to the Eletians themselves, as well, which was worrisome. Eletians liked to play games and Jametari, her adoptive brother, was a master.

When she returned to her chamber, she thought to settle back into working on Rider accounts. Though it was a wearisome chore, numbers held some comfort for her. They could be puzzling and frustrating, but they did not lie, were not subtle, and were not likely to meddle in her life or confer unwanted titles upon her. But quiet accounting was not to be. No sooner had she sat down than another Green Foot runner appeared at her door.

“What now?” she muttered.

The boy bowed. “Rider Lady Winterlight,” he said, “Her Majesty the Queen has sent me with this.” The boy held out an envelope addressed to Lady Winterlight in gracefully written and shimmering gold ink.

Uh oh, she thought. More trouble.

THE QUEEN’S SOLAR

Rider Tegan Oldbrine paused in Karigan’s doorway. “Did I just see a Green Foot runner stop by?”

Karigan looked up from the envelope. “Something from the queen.”

Tegan stepped into her chamber. “Pardon my curiosity, but what is it?”

Whereas Tegan was eager, Karigan was filled with dread. She guessed it was an invitation to one event or another. She had received others to teas, suppers, concerts, and a variety of entertainments, all of which she had declined. She’d little interest in gathering socially with those of noble status. Just from the envelope and its gold ink, it looked like something much grander than those that had preceded it.

“Well?” Tegan persisted.

The gold feather brooch that indicated Tegan’s rank as Chief Rider glinted against the green of her shortcoat. Karigan had worn it for a brief time before Connly had demoted her.

She opened the envelope. More gold ink curved and looped in graceful script and gleamed in the light.

“What does it say?” Tegan asked.

Karigan quickly scanned it. “It’s an invitation from the queen to the harvest ball on Feast of Vendane.” Vendane was the god of harvests.

“Ooh,” Tegan said, practically bouncing. “Is it a masquerade?”

“No.”

“Darn,” Tegan said. “No Queen Oddacious this time, I guess. I do know some excellent dressmakers if you are in need of a gown, though.”

Karigan raised an eyebrow at her friend.

“Fine, fine, but just you wait. You’ll come looking for me sooner or later. Tell me at least that there’s going to be a feast at this ball.”

“I’m not going, so I don’t need a gown,” Karigan replied. She happened to have other reasons to make the acquaintance of a fine dressmaker in the city and hadn’t needed Tegan’s help. “As for the feast . . .” She scanned the invitation. With this year’s scarcity due to the war with Second Empire and the conflict with the Darrow Raiders, the idea of a traditional Feast of Vendane banquet seemed a little out of step with the reality of everyday folk who must do without. “Ah,” she said. “Light refreshments.” Which meant they’d likely be generous refreshments, but too modest for the usual feast, which was slightly more sensitive in regard to the general population.

“You’ve got to go,” Tegan said. “It’s the social event of the season. I can do your hair.”

Karigan sighed and dropped the invitation on her desk. “Thank you, but like I said, I am not going.” The fact it was the social event of the season was enough reason for her to decline the invitation. She’d been to royal balls before, and her experiences had left something to be desired. “I’ve much to do between Rider accounts and clan business.”

“Might do you good to go,” Tegan said, “after all you’ve been through. An evening of fancy dress, dance, and fine libations can do wonders for one’s spirits.”

“I’d much rather have a tooth pulled.”

“Karigan Helgadorf G’ladheon,” Tegan said, and Karigan frowned at the use of her middle name, “Mara is right. You can be awfully crotchety. Several of us Riders would love that kind of invitation and would happily go in your place, if only we could. Well, to each her own.”

“I’m not—” But before Karigan could finish, Tegan was gone.

I’m not crotchety, she thought. But she now felt guilty. She wished she could send another Rider in her place, but the invitation was for her, and her only. She sighed and pulled out a fresh piece of paper, pen and ink, and carefully thanked the queen for the invitation, and offered her regrets that she could not attend such a grand occasion. She then hunted down a Green Foot runner and sent him with her response to the queen.

Satisfied that was out of her way, she returned to her chamber to resume work on Rider accounts. Not half an hour had passed, however, when the runner knocked on her door again.

“The queen requests that you attend her,” he said.

“Now?”

He nodded and told her where she’d find Estora.

One did not disobey a direct summons from the queen and Karigan did not dawdle, but swiftly left the sanctuary of her chamber for Estora’s solar. She assumed Estora had not been pleased by her response to the invitation.

When she reached the entrance to the solar, the Weapon Cori ushered her inside. The air within was pleasantly humid and smelled of fresh greenery. Estora was watering what appeared to be herbs. The entire solar flourished with potted plants great and small, saplings branching toward the ceiling, and ivy climbing columns, and various kinds of vegetation with leaves and blossoms spreading and growing wherever there was floor space. There was so much greenery it was, in fact, difficult to see from one end of the room to the other.

When war with Second Empire had threatened, Estora ordered the ornamental gardens of the central courtyard converted to vegetable gardens. Many of the ornamental plants, however, had been preserved. With ample sunshine pouring through the solar’s windows and Estora’s care, the plants were doing well. It was a bright and green oasis in the otherwise dismal stone walls of the castle.

“Ah, Karigan,” Estora said, setting her watering can aside. She wore an apron over her dress, and gardening gloves. “Thank you for coming.”

Karigan bowed. Had she a choice? It was the first time she’d been in Estora’s company since the queen’s startling declaration that Karigan and Zachary should be together with her blessing. Recalling that day, Karigan couldn’t help but feel awkward.

Estora tugged off her gloves and removed her apron. “I received your response to my invitation to the harvest ball, and I must say I am disappointed.”

“I am afraid I have been very busy,” Karigan replied.

“So your note said. However, I believe you should reconsider and find the time, for attending would be in your best interest.”

“But—”

Estora raised a finger. “No buts. You must take into consideration your status. You are no longer a common messenger, not even just a knight, but a scion of the king of Eletia. You are a representative of our ancient ally.”

A representative of Eletia? She had not thought of it that way. “But I was not given such a duty. Your Majesty, I do not know what the Eletians are up to by naming me an heir to the House of Santanara, but I don’t think they intended me to represent them in any way.”

“Are you so sure?” Estora countered. “Whether or not it’s what they intended, it is what people are perceiving, and they are anxious to see and get to know you, she who bore the light of the muna’riel and guided so many—hundreds, maybe thousands—to safety when the lower city was burning.”

Karigan twisted a ring around her finger, an emerald birch leaf on a band of white gold given her by Prince Jametari shortly after her “adoption.” This was what she did not want, to be on exhibit.

“I think I understand your reticence,” Estora continued, “but you must know that if you do not take control of the narrative around your situation, your story, someone else will. A certain story about a girl riding naked all the way from Corsa to Darden has been great fodder for many. I understand there are now even some songs. Yes, I know, you were wearing a nightgown, but you see how stories grow and this is but a minor example of what can happen. For all the glittering jewels, the fancy titles, and the gentility of the court, it has a seething underbelly of petty jealousies and grudges, intrigue and social maneuvering that flourishes with gossip and rumors. I tell you as a friend that it is best for you to present yourself as you wish to be seen, rather than have the court invent stories about who and what they think you are.”

“Invent . . . stories?”

“Oh, yes.” Estora paused to sniff a rose blossom that seemed to have acclimated well to the solar even though it was well past its season. “It is a mainstay of their daily amusement. The more salacious, the better.”

It wasn’t the first time Karigan had been warned about the royal court. It seemed all the more reason to avoid it, although Estora did have a point.

“Do you understand now why I recommend you attend?” Estora asked.

Karigan nodded.

“Good. Now that that’s been said, let us have some refreshment and you can tell me what you’ve been up to of late.” She tinkled a bell and, at a servant’s arrival, ordered warm sipping chocolate for them both. “Chocolate has been difficult to find since summer, but I have my own personal supply for the occasional treat.”

She led Karigan through the thick foliage to a pair of chairs and a table beneath an arbor of climbing honeysuckle where they could look out into the courtyard. The courtyard gardens were all put to rest beneath heaps of autumn leaves. The first snowfall had not accumulated and so the view was rather dull in browns and rusts. The real garden, Karigan thought, was in Estora’s solar.

The sipping chocolate was soon served, and Karigan was honored and extremely pleased that Estora shared her own supply with her. It was quite wonderful, but she wondered if there was something else on Estora’s mind than a simple chat and refreshment with a friend.

At Estora’s prompting, Karigan told her all there was to tell about her activities—trying to untangle the Rider accounts and manage the clan’s business, though she did not mention the clan’s troubles.

“I have no doubt your father would be very proud of you,” Estora said.

He might not be very proud, Karigan thought, if, under her watch, the business went under, but she didn’t mention this. Instead, she told Estora about the Turvals.

“What a persistent fellow,” Estora remarked. “And an entirely inappropriate match. I am pleased Zachary sent him on his way.”

Karigan was, too, and she agreed that Edwin had been persistent. In fact, she couldn’t help but think she had not seen the last of the Turvals, no matter Zachary’s admonishment that they leave her alone and return to Black Island.

“How are Prince Davriel and Princess Esmere?” she asked.

Estora’s whole demeanor brightened at Karigan’s mention of her children. “They are growing before my very eyes.” She launched into stories of spit-ups and smiles and all the things babies did whether they were princes and princesses, or the humblest of commoners. Karigan was not particularly interested in all the details, but it was worth seeing Estora’s happiness and hearing that the twins were doing well.

“Zachary is already planning on giving each of them a puppy in next spring’s litter,” Estora said with a shake of her head. “They’ll still be too young to understand, but he insists.”

Mention of Zachary’s name seemed to summon a difficult silence between them. Estora gave her a sidelong glance and set her cup down. It appeared she had something to say that had nothing to do with the ball, chocolate, or babies.

PERILOUS BEAUTY

Seconds extended into an eternity while Karigan waited for Estora to speak. A chickadee bobbed on a slender branch of a winterberry bush just outside the window. She focused on the bird and braced herself for what was to come.

“There has been much between us,” Estora said at last. “I count you as a friend though I know at times it may not have seemed that way. My being queen complicates all my friendships.”

Karigan knew it to be a vast understatement. “I understand.” She wondered how lonely it must be for Estora never knowing how genuine a friendship was, or if it was just someone looking for advantage and favors. Their friendship had been complicated in other ways.

“I suspect that despite my encouragement, you and Zachary have not spent time together.”

Here it was. She’d been expecting Estora to broach this topic, but expecting it did not alleviate any of the discomfort. She opened her mouth to speak, but Estora shook her head.

“I meant what I said that day and will not change my mind. If you are staying apart because of some ill-conceived notion of honor, it is an obstacle you have fashioned for yourselves of which I have had no part. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lady,” Karigan softly replied, still not able to look her in the eye. Whatever Estora said, Zachary was still her husband. It was a difficult line to cross.

“With the threat of Blackveil becoming more imminent,” Estora said, “Zachary will need you more than ever. He truly loves you, Karigan. That is a rare and wonderful gift. Do not miss this chance because of whatever boundaries you fear to cross. Do you hear what I am telling you?”

Karigan nodded.

Estora’s long appraisal made Karigan shift with unease.

“I am not convinced you do,” Estora said.

“I—”

“You were the last to see my love, F’ryan, alive. You wear the brooch he wore, ride the horse he rode. This binds us together, you and me. There have been times when I wished I could have been there in your stead when he passed, to be with him in the end, but I was not. I could not be, but by whatever fate that was woven by the gods, you were the one who was.” Estora looked through the window into the courtyard, daylight gliding across her features, her gaze far away.

Karigan had many feelings about that eventful day when she met a dying Green Rider along the road on her journey home after having run away from school. Her chance encounter with F’ryan Coblebay had changed the course of her life forever. At the time she had not known his name, or that he was beloved by the woman who was to become Sacoridia’s queen.

“You lost one you loved as well,” Estora said.

Her statement caught Karigan off guard. Cade . . .

Cade, the man she had loved in Sacoridia’s dark future. Even as the empire of that future fell, she’d tried to bring him back with her to her own time, but the forces that returned her home had torn them apart. Waves of grief and memory crashed into her, the sudden memories vivid enough to fill her senses with his particular scent, the taste of his mouth on hers, the heat of his skin against her skin as they made love. She recalled his gentle touch and how he soothed her when she feared she would lose him, only to lose him in truth.

It was a strange thing, memory. She recalled her experiences in the future only by reading notes she had scrawled upon her return or looking at drawings made by the ghost of Rider Yates Cardell of the people she had met, but even with these aids, memory faded and the accounts and pictures were more like pages out of a novel, not actual events. As the Eletians explained, it was difficult to recall future events when they had not yet come to pass. Even memories of Cade faded except in unexpected moments when prompted in some way as now, and they came back like jagged edges of glass tearing her up inside. Still, it was getting harder to remember.

In her reawakened anguish at losing Cade, the daylight in the solar died and it was as if she was falling, falling into an abyss vast and black and empty. She just wanted to keep falling rather than go on.

Estora’s hand on her wrist brought her back, and she blinked at the light and the tears streaming down her cheeks. Estora sat quietly as Karigan sought to compose herself.

“I’m so sorry, Karigan,” she said. “You know intimately, as do I, how such loss feels. The pain may recede for a time, but it never fully goes away, and it can return in a rush at the most unexpected moments. Sometimes I will encounter someone who looks a bit like F’ryan or sounds like him. Or I am presented with food that was his favorite, or hear a song we both enjoyed. There are many reminders that spur the pain anew.”

“Yes,” Karigan said.

“When you’ve a true heart mate, as I believe you and Zachary are to one another, the loss . . .” She paused as if unable to continue, but she took a deep breath and said, “You will not want to go on. There is a thinness to my soul without F’ryan. I knew well before the news was brought to me that he had been killed. I just knew. I could feel his absence.

“I had his love for but a short amount of time, but it is better than not having had it at all. The gods blessed me by bringing him into my life, just as they have brought Zachary into yours, and you into his. Do not forsake this opportunity. Your being together will fill both your hearts and make hard times easier to bear. If you stay apart, you will both break, and should there be loss of one or the other of you, all the regret in the world will not mend what can no longer be.”

Estora’s words passed through Karigan like a swift current and she could not hold on to any one of them. Grief and guilt consumed her, the guilt of having left Cade behind in the future, the guilt of allowing his memory to fade, and maybe even the guilt of loving another.

“You are my truest friend,” Estora said, “and not just because you wear the brooch F’ryan wore. I trust you as I trust no other. I wish you could trust me as I trust you.”

Karigan emerged from her reveries blinking rapidly.

“I hope you take to heart all I’ve said,” Estora told her.

“Yes, you are my friend. I trust you, too.” But so caught in a fugue of memory and emotions had Karigan been, she wondered how much of what Estora had said she missed.

“Good, for I will not be speaking of it again.”

Karigan glanced down at her cup of chocolate as speechless as the day when Estora had placed her hand into Zachary’s and told the two of them they had her blessing to be together so long as it did not become a topic of public knowledge. For her part, Karigan had indeed put up a barrier. Estora’s permission felt too new, too awkward, and the idea of it retained the tang of “mistress.” Karigan was not about to play the role of mistress much as she longed to be with Zachary. She took a final sip of her chocolate, but it had turned cold and syrupy.

“As for the harvest ball,” Estora said in a lighter voice as if she hadn’t just encouraged Karigan to have an affair with her husband, “now that you’ve had some time to think it over, have I succeeded in swaying you to change your mind? Will you attend the ball?”

Karigan fidgeted. “If you think it is that important . . .”

Estora gave a lilting laugh. “My dear Karigan, it isn’t as if I’m asking you to walk into Blackveil. The refreshments will be very good, and the orchestra exceptional. You would not have to stay long, for even a brief appearance will do much to assuage the curiosity of the court.”

Blackveil, Karigan thought, would almost be preferable. Members of the court could see her around the castle if they wanted, but not all of them, she supposed, would recognize her, and it wasn’t often she was present in the areas they frequented. They certainly didn’t visit Rider stables when she was cleaning stalls.

She gave Estora a faltering smile. “I will attempt it.”

Estora laughed again and shook her head. “Such enthusiasm. I look forward to seeing you there.” She rose then, and Karigan hastily followed suit. “I am overdue to meet with my ladies for embroidery and music, but I enjoyed our visit.”

“Thank you for the chocolate.” Karigan could still taste the sweetness of it on her lips.

“Of course.”

She followed Estora along the narrow path between the plants brushing against greenery and branches, when she accidentally walked into the lower limbs of a sapling. Her eyepatch obscured her peripheral vision on her right side, and sometimes she still bumped into door frames and objects, or misjudged the depth of steps. As she attempted to disentangle herself from the branches, one scraped her face and snagged her eyepatch off, uncovering her mirror eye.

“Ow!” While her eye often ached, it throbbed with stabbing pain when exposed.

Estora turned around, and before Karigan could recover and clap her hand over her eye, they locked gazes. This was a hazard, for Karigan wore the patch to conceal no ordinary wound. Her eye was a mirror. It had been impaled by a shard from a looking mask, an arcane object that gave those who gazed into it visions. The visions were of the past or future or present, and sometimes other insights. Karigan, too, sometimes saw visions when her eye was revealed—the weaving of the world, the weft and warp of fate, and the stars of the heavens.

This time, she saw nothing at first, just felt the pain, but the lack of vision soon gave away to an alternate image of Estora standing before her, the queen in her armor. Karigan had seen Estora in her armor when they’d gone to parley with General Birch after Second Empire had lain siege to Sacor City. Her armor shone in silver and filigreed gold, with stylized rose blossoms in enameled reds, the leaves and thorny stems in green. Upon seeing their queen thus, the citizens of Sacor City who had stood along the Winding Way had taken up the cry, “The Rose Queen! The Rose Queen!”

In the vision, Estora looked off into the distance, her arms outstretched in an attitude of command. The roses on her arms bloomed to life and grew. The stems wound around her arms and legs. The blossoms proliferated in strength and beauty and Karigan could almost smell their intoxicating scent. Rose stalks shot up from the ground at Estora’s feet. Leaves unfurled and flowers opened, all the while the Rose Queen’s gaze remained fixed on a scene beyond Karigan’s ken.

It seemed to take all of Karigan’s strength to raise her hand to cover her eye. When finally she succeeded, she gasped and staggered backward. Estora did the same.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Karigan said. She groped after her eyepatch and tugged it off the branch. She quickly placed it over her eye.

Estora shook her head as though to clear it and they both stood there dazed.

“Did—did you see anything?” Karigan asked.

Estora took a deep breath. “Acorns and . . .”

“Acorns?”

“No, nothing . . . Nothing new.”

She had gazed into Karigan’s mirror eye once before, but what she had seen she never revealed. Karigan wondered about “acorns” and her claim of not seeing anything “new.”

Without warning, Estora threw her arms around Karigan and hugged her fiercely. Karigan stiffened in surprise.

“I am sorry,” Estora said, “for all you have been through these past years, including what happened to your poor eye. I am sorry you have suffered so much.”

What on Earth had she seen? Karigan cautiously hugged her in return. Estora was slight, almost delicate in her arms, and was pleasantly scented with lavender, but Karigan recalled the vision of the Rose Queen in her armor commanding roses to sprout from the earth. She recognized how the duality of blossom and thorn might represent a warning. The gods, after all, had endowed Estora with such rare beauty and grace that the minstrels sang of it across the realm and beyond, and her royal status meant she was also endowed with such power that she held the fate of her subjects, including that of Karigan, in her hands. Karigan, who had once been lectured by the well-meaning countess of Oxbridge about the danger of kings, wondered about the danger of queens.

At the moment, Estora’s warm embrace and remorse for Karigan’s lot felt genuine, but what if Karigan and Zachary, having received Estora’s blessing to act on their feelings for one another, did so? Would Estora change her mind? After all, the reality of her husband and Karigan actually going forward with a relationship would certainly be more impactful than the mere idea of it, leading to, at the very least, hurt feelings and jealousy, and envy at the worst. It was a queen’s prerogative to change her mind, which made it a dangerous proposition. As much as Karigan believed Estora meant what she said and would remain reasonable, it was always possible a change of heart would not go well for her. It was all the more reason to retain that barrier between herself and Zachary.

She shuddered a little when they drew apart. Fortunately, Estora did not seem to pick up on it. They left the solar and bade one another farewell, Estora going her way in thoughtful silence, and Karigan going hers. She walked slowly, feeling unbalanced by the experience and her mirror eye throbbing. She tried to absorb it all, the admonition to attend the ball, and the words about Zachary, but it was the vision of the Rose Queen and her perilous beauty that she couldn’t get out of her head.

ALL A GAME

Unseen and undetected, a wisp of grayish blue smoke escaped the draw of the chimney and fingered its way out of the hearth, beneath the mantel, and into the chamber. The wisp lengthened, thinned, broadened, drifted, and took on the appearance of an apparition, roughly man shaped. It was, however, no simple revenant of the afterlife, nor was it a wraith of any kind, but a fully intelligent entity.

It observed Karigan G’ladheon from behind as she worked at her desk unaware of the intrusion. The entity hovered in the shadows. It did not approach or attempt to interact with her. It just watched.

Soon a runner came to her door. “The queen requests that you attend her,” the boy said.

“Now?”

He nodded. “Aye. You’ll find her in the solar.”

The entity sensed her reluctance about attending the queen and wondered about it. A mystery for another time.

Following her departure, the entity drifted to her desk to look at her work and found it consisted mostly of columns of numbers, which proved to be the same as usual and of little interest.

The entity extended an armlike tendril and opened the top drawer, which revealed personal effects—hair ribbons, nibs, pots of ink, a piece of hard candy stuck to the bottom. Other drawers contained a gray eagle’s feather, a drawing of various unknown people, scraps of paper, handkerchiefs, and other clutter.

The entity proceeded to her wardrobe and went through her garb and found assorted uniform parts, some civilian clothes, and a blue dress. All in all, it found nothing new or remarkable among Karigan G’ladheon’s belongings.

A little feline entered the chamber through the cracked doorway and detected the entity at once. He arched his back, puffed up, and hissed and spat. The entity hissed at it in return and laughed to itself when the feline turned tail and bolted back into the corridor.

This was not the entity’s first visit to the Green Rider’s chamber. It had entered it on previous occasions, sending but a fragment of its own form to remain undetected and to spare its energy. These excursions to the solid environs of the Earthly plane were taxing and left the entity greatly diminished. During its visits, it had watched her work in this chamber, laugh with friends, and ready herself for the day. It had watched her sleep.

It learned of her exploits since last they had met and saw the scarring of her back. The most important detail it had discovered about her, her greatest secret, was her association with her people’s god of death. She was his vessel, an intriguing development.

Yes, most intriguing.

It was not only Karigan G’ladheon the entity watched, however. On previous visits, it had hidden high among the shadowy rafters of the throne room and listened to the news of the realm and beyond as presented to the king and queen by messengers, courtiers, lords and ladies, and commoners. It heard about battles and fires and, in the east, strange sightings of sea monsters that sounded an awful lot like dragons. It also heard about the upcoming ball.

It had spent some of its visits to the castle drifting in corridors, hiding in shadows, and eavesdropping on those who walked about from place to place, but much of the conversation provided little insight beyond the mundane.

The entity limited its excursions to conserve the toll on its energy. Currently its strength was draining away quickly. The expenditure to interact with the material world, whether looking through drawers or hissing at cats, was of greater cost than just simple watching, and it was time to curtail this outing, but it had one more thing to do before it left.

Upon the entity’s misty palm appeared a small green glass figure mounted on a horse used in the playing of the game Intrigue. The mounted figure represented a messenger. The entity set the game piece on Karigan G’ladheon’s dusty mantel behind a ceramic horse figurine and, as an afterthought, tipped it over into the “dead” position. How long would it take her to notice it?

It was all a game, was it not?

The entity drifted back into the fireplace. It was not drafted up the chimney even then, but absorbed through the back of the hearth in a vortex that returned it to the world of its own, but it would be back.

ARMS TRAINING

“ . . . and this is Queen Isen, your great grandmother.”

Zachary lowered his gaze from the portrait of the forbidding queen to his son nestled so comfortably in his arms. Dav returned his gaze with solemn eyes before his attention wandered off in various directions as was the way with babies for whom everything was new. “Bored with the family history, eh? Wait until you see my sword collection.”

Dav’s nurse emitted a soft gasp, her eyes widening at the mention of swords. Zachary fought an impulse to chuckle. Perhaps swords were unsafe for babies, but Dav would grow quickly and start arms training almost as soon as he could walk. He was, after all, a prince one day destined to be Sacoridia’s king who would lead its armies. Zachary approved, however, of the nurse’s protective instincts. He’d no doubt she’d be as fierce as any Weapon when it came to protecting her small charge, and he was glad.

As he moved on to a huge portrait of Smidhe Hillander astride his white courser and prepared to regale his tiny audience with tales of the man who won the crown for his clan, Estora approached from down the corridor, escorted by Weapons Cori and Nate. She halted and gazed in surprise at him.

He smiled. “I’m telling Dav all about his ancestry. Was your afternoon with your ladies pleasant?”

“I—” She took a moment to compose herself, then faltered. Tears appeared in her eyes.

“My lady?” He stepped toward her in concern. “What is it?”

Then she laughed even as she cried. It was very confusing.

“You. With our son.” It was all she seemed able to say.

Perplexed, he replied, “Are you wondering where Ez is? She got fussy when I talked about Duke Argosan, which is not surprising as he was an old curmudgeon and often unpleasant. He’d have made me fuss, too. Anyway, we ended up putting her down for her nap.”

If anything, Estora laughed and cried harder. He raised his eyebrows in bafflement. “My lady? Are you quite all right?” He shifted Dav to the crook of his arm and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. She accepted it and dabbed her eyes.

She soon settled, though her eyes still glistened. “I am quite all right. Better than all right to see our son in his father’s arms.”

He glanced down at Dav, who opened his mouth wide in a yawn, then at the portraits on the wall. There was one of his father, Amigast, nearby. Traditionally, most noble fathers took little interest in their offspring except in the training of sons in arms and the governing of their holdings. Daughters were of interest only as pawns in creating beneficial alliances through marriage.

Zachary, bereft of his mother, Princess Andra, who passed away shortly after birthing him, grew up without the one parent who might have provided him affection. Amigast had paid Zachary scant attention for he’d an older son to prepare for the throne. It was left to others to raise and train Zachary to become lord-governor of Hillander Province. That was until Amilton proved himself an unworthy heir. By then, Zachary was full grown, his character shaped by the stern affection of his grandmother, and by various servants and even some Weapons, and especially by Laren Mapstone.

He was determined not to follow his father’s example. His children would know not only duty, but love. Besides, he was tickled by them, the funny little creatures that they were.

But now Dav, having heard his mother’s voice, gabbled and opened and closed his fists. “Ba-ba-ba,” he said.

“I think he wants his mama.” Zachary transferred Dav into Estora’s arms.

Dav gazed up at her. “Ba-ba-ba.”

Her content expression as she returned her baby’s gaze was a pleasing scene. She, too, he knew, was determined to be present in the lives of her children instead of just passing their care off to nurses.

Zachary and Estora’s relationship was complicated, borne not out of love but political advantage. It was a fortunate union. All the elements were there, the allegiance of the eastern lord-governors, a capable queen who had shown her strength in leading the realm during his absences, and one who was adored by her people. She had provided him with heirs and was a doting mother. The two of them shared interests in poetry and art, and she was an articulate conversationalist. He supposed most men would have begun with her beauty when listing her attributes and ended there. She was indeed of pleasant countenance, but her character, to Zachary’s thinking, was by far her most alluring feature. He thought the twins would certainly take after her in looks, much to their good fortune, and he hoped they inherited her other attributes, as well.

She’d also been a delightful bed partner though they’d not slept together since the arrival of the twins, but already various among his advisers and courtiers were pressuring him for more royal heirs, an issue which would soon have to be addressed.

They were compatible in so many ways and made a formidable couple. He would have been content with the arrangement but for Karigan G’ladheon, who had swept unexpectedly into his life, the merchant’s daughter who had become a Green Rider and had occupied his thoughts from the moment they met. It was she, not his golden queen, who made his heart quicken.

He heard the faint peal of the city bells. “I fear I must prepare for arms training,” he said.

“I think our prince is due for a nap after learning all about his clan’s history,” Estora said.

Zachary bent down to kiss Dav’s forehead, and saw tears well once more in Estora’s eyes before he took his leave.

• • •

When Zachary arrived at the field house for his weapons training session, he found Arms Master Drent and nine of his trainees staring at the ceiling. Naturally he followed their gazes and discovered a battle ax was embedded in one of the cross beams.

What in the world?

Along the wall were three straw-stuffed dummies clad in various configurations of armor. Drent had been teaching his trainees in the use of the battle ax. But how had it gotten in the beam? It was not a throwing weapon, generally.

Drent shook his head. “I just don’t understand,” he muttered. “I just don’t.” He was broad-shouldered, a barrel-chested warrior whose face seemed frozen in a scowl. He struck fear into the hearts of many an arms student. “How do you manage these things?” He looked about ready to tear out his short, spiky hair as he glared at one of his trainees.

The trainee in question wore green. Karigan?

“I, um . . .” she began. “It slipped from my hand on the upswing and, well, there it is.”

There was some sniggering from the others. Zachary fought to contain his own laughter. Oh, Karigan, he thought. She was very good at many things, but not all, and when something went awry, it tended to go really awry. He found it endearing.

“Silence!” Drent bellowed, and his students stifled their laughter. He pointed at Karigan. “You will never be an arms master. How you managed to become a swordmaster, I’ve no idea. You are a danger to others when you’ve weapons in your hands.”

“Um, isn’t that kind of the point?” she asked in a small voice.

A snicker or two escaped the trainees.

Zachary thought Drent might explode.

“To your foes, yes. But you present a danger to your comrades and it is unacceptable.” He glared at the group. “What are you lot all standing around for? Find a ladder and get that ax down before it falls on someone’s head. Now.”

The trainees practically fell over themselves to obey, hastily bowing to Zachary as they trotted by him. Karigan’s blush deepened when she looked upon him.

“As I recall,” Zachary told Drent, “Rider G’ladheon is rather good with a staff.”

“You think so, eh? Well, then, perhaps we should see if that is still the case.”

Zachary warmed up while the trainees found a tall enough ladder to lean against the crossbeam and worked the battle ax out of it.

When they were done, Drent said, “Fighting staves, all of you.” He looked at Zachary. “You, too, boy, since you suggested it.”

Zachary was surprised—not by the use of “boy” which was something of an old joke between the two of them, but that he was going to be included in this next exercise.

In the arming room, he picked out a staff that suited him for all that it was battered, the grain of the wood smoothed and discolored by the hands of so many over the years. Nearby, Karigan picked out one for herself. When she looked his way, they exchanged fleeting smiles.

So much said in a smile, he thought. So much that could not be said aloud. Not here. Not now. If only they’d that freedom.

When they returned to the training room, Drent put them through exercises, walking among his students and correcting stances, grips, and the execution of forms. He halted before Karigan.

“Your king says you are good with a staff,” he said. “It has been a while since I have worked you on the staff. As I recall, you never flung it at anyone or anything, but we shall see what you can do. Everyone will pair up for bouts.” He jabbed his finger at her. “You will pair up with the boy.”

Her mouth opened as if she were going to object, but then clamped it shut. Zachary recalled the first time Drent had ever ordered them to engage in a bout it was with swords and she had not wished to raise one against him. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, either. She hadn’t been a swordmaster back then. Drent had been annoyed they were holding back and pushed them to engage without restraint. As a result, Zachary had almost lopped off Karigan’s head. He grimaced at the memory.

They faced one another in one of the practice rings. He would never forgive himself if he hurt her again, for he may not have cut off her head that day, but he’d given her a concussion.

“Now we will see how you do with opponents,” Drent said.

He gave the word, and Zachary and Karigan touched staffs and circled one another. The tension built as each awaited the other to strike first. Karigan’s expression was one of concentration, but he was distracted by the sun beaming through the windows onto her gold-brown hair, the slant of her cheekbones, the glint in her bright eye, the—

She leaped toward him, staff in motion.

THE NAME OF FATE

This was just great, Karigan thought as she and Zachary circled one another. Fate had it in for them, constantly throwing them together into situations that made it impossible for them to keep a distance. In this case, fate was named “Drent.” She now understood Colonel Mapstone’s frequently expressed desire to throttle the man.

Karigan had faced Zachary in a training exercise before, again thanks to Drent, but fortunately this time they weren’t using swords. Not that she thought she’d best Zachary, but because she didn’t want to be responsible for accidentally stabbing Sacoridia’s king. And, of course, she could not bear the idea of harming him. But whenever she decided they should keep apart, fate intervened.

The way he gazed at her, he looked a little distracted. It would be to her advantage to make a first strike, and she decided she had better do so before Drent barked at her. She leaped forward to engage, and the surprise on Zachary’s face and the fact he barely raised his staff in time to deflect her blow, confirmed he had, in fact, been distracted.

They backed off and circled again, and almost cautiously he initiated a series of forms. They were slow, careful. Karigan was sure Drent would berate them for not putting their all into it. The other trainees filled the training room with the clash of their staves and grunts of effort.

“You two, pitiful,” Drent said when he came around to observe them. “And boy, you will do no good coddling her when it comes time for her to defend herself for real. Put some speed and muscle into it.”

Having had his say, the arms master went to yell at some of the others.

“How is your back holding up?” Zachary asked Karigan.

She had been flogged nearly to death the previous winter by a sadist who had shredded her back, and for some time, believed she’d never be able to handle a sword or staff again. However, with excellent mending in the very beginning, and further true healing performed by Rider Mender Ben Simeon, plus special training sessions to strengthen damaged muscles, she was doing well, though she’d never be quite the same.

“It’s fine,” she said.

“Good,” he replied. “What do you say we give our arms master a bit of a show?”

She smiled and nodded.

The exchange seemed to relax the tension between them. Zachary’s suggestion turned the awkward situation into a fun exercise, and it reminded Karigan of her school days when a teacher pushed students to do better and they responded with more than was asked of them.

They launched into a series of showy forms, delivering and countering blows that clacked in a most satisfying cadence. Staff fighting allowed freer movement than the style of swordplay Karigan had been trained in, and she spun and leaped, her ponytail whipping around the back of her neck.

As one took the measure of the other, they increased the speed of their bout. Karigan pressed Zachary back with a rapid and intricate series of moves.

“Hah!” he cried in delight, before responding in kind.

She leaped over a blow meant to sweep her feet out from beneath her. He leaned far back to avoid a high blow, only to return with a jab to her midsection which she handily blocked.

It went on like this, the back and forth in their ring, sliding and leaping in the sawdust, circling and engaging with shouts of “Well done!” when one or the other got a point. Karigan laughed in joy at the speed and movement. In this they could be free with one another when they could not otherwise.

They did not hold back. Time became irrelevant. Karigan admired the fluidity with which he moved, the precision of his blows, but she could not linger on such thoughts lest he score too many points due to her lack of concentration.

She stepped in toward what she perceived to be an opening only for him to pivot around behind her and trap her against his chest with his staff. She froze, feeling his heart pound against her back, his breaths upon her neck.

“Do you surrender?” he asked softly.

Yes, yes, she wanted to say so close to him, her form fitting so well against his. Instead, she said, “Not hardly,” and rammed her elbow into his ribs. He loosened his hold of her with an oof and she ducked and slipped away. She whipped around to deal him a blow, but he recovered just in time to catch it. She was relentless, however, and pushed him to the edge of their ring. They stood firm, staff to staff, almost nose to nose. His position was precarious, and if she pushed him out of the ring, she would win.

“Do you surrender?” she asked.

He blinked. She had never noticed how long his eyelashes were before, or the gold flecks in his brown eyes.

“Always,” he whispered.

They stood there locked together for an eternity or a fleeting moment. She didn’t know which. She realized, with a start, the room had gone deathly quiet. They jumped apart and found all the trainees watching them. Drent gave them slow, mocking applause.

“Very entertaining dance,” he told them. “So nice that you can show off when you aren’t facing a real enemy.”

So, they hadn’t pleased him after all.

“Since you like to work together,” Drent continued, “you two will face off against the rest.” He drew a line in the sawdust with his foot. “If they push you over this line, you’re dead.”

Karigan exchanged glances with Zachary. Eight against two? And all of them swordmasters. Some would be going to Breaker Island to further their training to become Weapons. Others might continue to train to become arms masters. The rest, like herself, would simply work to maintain and improve their skills. The lot of them would roll over her and Zachary, though some were looking a little uncertain about it, especially the Weapon candidates. She wasn’t the only one, it seemed, who had qualms about engaging Sacoridia’s king.

Karigan and Zachary stepped over the line to a spot in the center of the training room as indicated by Drent. They stood at guard.

“Begin,” Drent said.

The other trainees sprang to and mobbed Karigan with staves flailing. She was whacked and knocked and rammed. No one attacked Zachary and only defended themselves when he tried to keep them from attacking her.

“STOP!” Drent roared.

Immediately the trainees backed off.

“Are you all right?” Zachary asked her.

Fortunately she, like the rest of them, wore a padded jack, and she hadn’t been hit badly, but it left her frazzled.

“I’m fine,” she replied. “Maybe a little bruised.”

Drent gave the other trainees a tongue lashing about engaging Zachary, much like the one he’d given her.

“He needs the practice,” Drent exhorted, “and he’s a better fighter than you lot. Don’t go easy on him.”

There was still trepidation in the gazes of the trainees. Karigan knew what they were thinking. What if they injured him? What if they injured him badly? Raising a weapon against the king brought severe penalties, except in specific cases like arms practice. Still, the natural inclination was to protect him, not attack, and the fear of consequences should something go wrong was great.

“Begin,” Drent said.

This time the trainees engaged Zachary in addition to Karigan, but there was still hesitation. He made them pay for it with punishing attacks. A sound strike to Karigan’s leg reminded her that she needed to concentrate on her own opponents. Staves whipped through the air all around her and their blows buffeted her. She fended off her attackers as best she could. Intuitively, she and Zachary closed the space between them to fight back-to-back and began to move in concert as though they were one. Together they forced their attackers to be on the defense. Though she no longer focused on Zachary, she could sense him beside and behind her. With the peripheral vision of her one eye, she saw his opponents flail and fall. Drent might mock it, but it truly was a dance between the two of them that came naturally.

It wasn’t too long, however, before weariness took its toll. One could manage under an onslaught for only so long. A jab to her shoulder, a hit to her knee, and repeated thrusts to her torso that connected even through the padded jack, left her stumbling and winded. The trainees pushed her and Zachary across the line. She dropped to the floor gasping for air, sweat streaming down her face. Zachary leaned on his staff.

“Enough of that for today,” Drent said.

While the other trainees filed out to the arming room, Zachary extended a hand to Karigan.

“Thank you,” Karigan said, “but if it’s all right with you, I think I’d like to sit here for a minute.”

“Have you been hurt?” Zachary asked.

“Even more bruises than before, and winded, but I’m all right. You?”

“The same.”

He didn’t look winded.

“Mmph.” Drent gazed at them with his arms folded across his chest.

Karigan braced herself for the criticism that was sure to be heaped on her. Maybe on Zachary, too, but probably mostly on her.

“You,” he told her, “can handle a staff, but I knew this. No battle axes for you, though.”

She tried to decide if he was joking, but it was often too hard to tell with Drent.

“Donal and Fastion told me,” he continued, “that you two worked well together in the last battle. Swords then. So today I decided to test you myself with staves. See how you did together.”

“Was it as they said?” Zachary asked.

Drent grunted, then nodded. “Interesting. Sometimes Weapons are paired together who complement one another’s fighting style, work well together. Makes them a stronger unit. You two, similar but different. Good.” Without another word, he headed for the arming room.

When Karigan looked up, Zachary was grinning. “That was high praise,” he said. “I think.”

Drent stuck his head back into the training room. “Boy! Laps. And you, Rider, get out. You’re done for the day.”

This time Karigan accepted Zachary’s hand up. His grin had turned to more of a grimace. “It would appear my training session has only just begun.”

“Good luck,” she told him.

He gave her hand a lingering squeeze before setting off at a run around the perimeter of the training room. She might have stayed to watch, but Drent’s dismissal had been very clear. She smiled to herself as she crossed castle grounds thinking of how much she had enjoyed fighting beside Zachary and how they had worked so well together. It had been as if they were naturally connected to one another. Whatever it was, it warmed her even as a cold wind cut in from the north.

WRAITHS PROGRESSING

Leaves driven by the north wind whirled and skittered along the roadway. The land went silent in advance of the clop and thud of horse hooves. The whites of the horse’s eyes shone bright in the gloom, and a lather foamed on its neck. Though its mind had been broken so it would bear the one who now rode it, the reek of living death and all that burrows and rots in graves still excited the poor horse’s senses.

The wraith once known as Terrandon, Lord of the South, had made good progress riding north-northeast from its former territory in Wayman, leaving mounts dead in the road after the life in them had been expended. The wraith proceeded on foot until it came upon another horse it could use.

The call from Blackveil urged it on. Bring the Galadheon, it commanded. Bring her to me.

The wraith traveled as the sun went down in the leaden sky and through the night, seeking deepest shadow in which to hide from the day’s sharp light. The wind lifted its ragged cloak behind as it rode toward Sacor City to heed its master’s call.

East of the Wingsong Mountains in the interior of Coutre Province, the wraith known as Lichant, Lord of the East, dug its hands into a mound of earth, pulling away turf, clods of dirt, and rocks. Digging, digging, digging until the rough stonework of a small cairn began to take shape. Ancient runes scribed on some of the stones warned against trespass and bore faded spells of warding.

The wraith pried at the seams and fractures of the stonework. It tugged and pulled at the blocks to loosen them, undeterred even when its blackened fingernails were ripped off and papery torn flesh hung from its bony hands.

When finally one of the stones yielded, a current of cold, blue energy erupted around the cairn mound. The wraith tossed its head back with a tortured howl that echoed through the valley. The woods went silent, and any who heard the cry felt icy terror strike their hearts before they rushed inside their homes and locked their doors. Even sitting huddled by their fires, they shivered worse than from any nightmare.

The wraith persisted despite the agony of the wards, dislodging one stone after another. By the time the wards died, its hands smoked.

A hole gaped open where the wraith worked. It reached in shoulder deep, groping and pawing, and retrieved muddy and corroded shards of steel that had once been the blade of a sword. Last of all, it removed what remained of the tang and guard.

The wraith emitted a rasping breath at its success. It had recovered its sword, a sword that could best even a god, and now it would be remade.

GOWNS

The sun was westering when Robert stepped outside the guild house with a fuming Sir Karigan. Her meeting with the triumvirate of the merchants guild had not gone well.

“If only I’d had my sword with me,” she muttered.

He envisioned a massacre with the heads of the guild’s leaders on their high desk. “I understand how that must feel,” he said, “but might it be a rather extreme response?”

She halted on the marble steps and looked at him. “It’s an insult to my father and the clan after all he’s done for them.”

A breeze fluttered the hem of her skirts. She’d dressed the part of a prosperous and prestigious merchant, as was to be expected when attending a formal meeting with the guild masters. Robert observed how, with her every movement, the deep garnet velvet of her gown shifted with the light like the facets of a jewel. A luxurious cloak lined with the snowy fur of an ice fox draped decorously across her shoulders. And, of course, she wore the medallion of clan sub-chief around her neck and her clan rings on her fingers, along with the curious emerald birch leaf ring. A fine gold chain woven into her pinned hair, which she wore in a coil, glinted with the setting sun.

The ensemble had been costly, Robert knew, and the clan could not really afford such extravagance, but her position demanded it. He’d made sure that he’d sold off the accoutrements of Stevic G’ladheon’s office for a very good return to help subsidize her attire.

“What right do they have to ban the clan from the guild?” she demanded.

“They haven’t done so yet,” he reminded her. Being banned from the guild would certainly make it impossible for the clan to do business in Sacor City and affiliated towns and villages. Without the guild’s approval, they’d be branded third-rate street peddlers at best.

“I don’t know where I’m going to get the currency to pay for our membership,” she continued. “I suppose I can begin by selling off this gown. And this.” She plucked at the gold chain in her hair. “And possibly father’s horse.”

Pity about the gown, Robert thought, as she looked rather stunning in it. “I thought you were going to attend the queen’s harvest ball. Won’t you need it then?”

She grumbled something unintelligible. “I’ll wear my formal uniform. That will be more than acceptable.”

Robert agreed that it would, but it would also be, to his mind, far less captivating.

“Well, well, the sub-chief of Clan G’ladheon,” said a woman as she strode right up to them and blocked their way. Celesta Suttley, tall and imperious in bearing, and also richly attired for her day at the guild house. She was, to Robert’s mind, however, far outshone by Sir Karigan. Clan Suttley was a longtime rival of Clan G’ladheon. “I never thought I’d see the day,” she declared. “Stevic’s clan brought to the bottom of the barrel.”

Robert observed Sir Karigan’s hand twitch as though she itched to grasp the hilt of a sword that was not there.

Celesta laughed. “Why, you and your family will be paupers before this is done. Time to sell off your mother’s jewels, eh? We all know how much Stevic lavished upon Kariny before her premature death, and she no better than a fisher’s daughter.”

A flush crept up Sir Karigan’s neck into her cheeks. Uh oh, Robert thought. She looked ready to punch Celesta right in the face. It was something he wouldn’t mind seeing, but it would not help the clan’s standing, and he could only imagine the reparations Clan Suttley would demand for injuries inflicted upon its chief.

“Celesta Suttley,” Sir Karigan replied in a cool voice, “I understand there has been quite the infestation of leaf beetles on your plantations.”

Clan Suttley traded largely in tobacco and maintained plantations in Huradesh.

“Alas, these things happen in agriculture. It is nothing.” Celesta tried to wave it off, but Sir Karigan had clearly scored a point. The infestation must be very bad indeed.

“Three years in a row,” Sir Karigan replied. “I also heard the king of Huradesh has levied heavy fines against Suttley for the misuse of his subjects on your plantations.”

“Easily alleviated by well-placed bribes.”

“Of course. I suppose bribes will also alleviate the ban on importing Suttley tobacco into Sacoridia, which King Zachary has proposed because of those same abuses?”

Robert’s mouth dropped open. Celesta’s mouth dropped open.

“Where?” Celesta demanded. “Where did you hear of this? Or, does the king tell you these things because of Stevic’s bribes to the crown? Such detestable favoritism must cease immediately.”

“First of all, the king tells me nothing of his policies. I’m just a common messenger. Second, my father has outfitted the messenger service as a donation because his daughter is a messenger and expects nothing in return. He need not bribe anyone. And who are you to accuse him of such after just bragging of the very same illicit practices? Third, everyone is talking about the proposed ban on your tobacco.”

“Everyone?”

Sir Karigan ignored and stepped around her, and continued down the steps to the street. Robert hurried after her, leaving behind Celesta who, after a few shocked moments, ordered her aides to her side and railed at them for their inadequacies in obtaining intelligence on the matter.

“You absolutely slayed her,” he told Sir Karigan. “The expression on her face was enough to sour cow’s milk.”

She gave him a brutal smile. “I overheard a few whispers while waiting for my hearing. It was the only good thing I heard in there.”

“It was certainly news to Celesta.”

“Whether or not the king and guild follow through with a ban,” she replied, “just word of it will cause Clan Suttley complications, but they’ll survive. They always do. Us, I am less sure about.”

“If I may be so bold,” Robert replied, “if anyone can bring the clan through, it is you.”

“Thank you for your confidence, Robert. I wish I could share it.” She sighed. “It’s time I returned to the castle.”

“Shall I find you a cab or escort you?”

“No, thank you. I have much to think about.”

Robert did not like the idea of leaving a lady to walk alone in the city as the dusk deepened, but he reminded himself she was more than capable of defending herself. Anyone who tried to accost her would be in for a rude surprise.

“Very well, madam. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Robert.”

Karigan was already deep in thought as she wished Robert a goodnight. No doubt her aunts were going to confront a similar judgment from the Corsa merchants guild, that if they did not pay the exorbitant fees of guild membership, the clan reputation would be sullied and the exclusivity of belonging to the guild, with all its benefits, would be lost.

She had customers, but it was not easy working with suppliers when she hadn’t the currency to pay them. And, she could not travel to see customers or suppliers to negotiate because of her duty as a Green Rider. She’d hired a couple agents to do so on her behalf, but their services cost a percentage of sales, and she couldn’t know how well they were working out until much later. Customers and suppliers preferred dealing with the man himself—her father. It was his personal touch, his warm, generous, and persuasive manner that was the face of the business.

But her father was gone to distant lands and Sevano, who was often his proxy, gone with him.

She passed a lamplighter out on his rounds, but the streets were quiet with shops now closed and most folk gone to their suppers. Her own stomach rumbled, and she thought she might dine in the Wayward Inn’s common room before she returned to the castle. They drew a fairly good ale, which should help assuage some of the bitterness of the merchants guild. She could not wait to change out of the gown into her comfortable rest day clothes in her father’s rented rooms, and snorted at the notion of returning to the castle in her elegant attire. Tegan’s reaction would be priceless, and she wondered idly if her dressmaker was one Tegan knew.

Her amusing thoughts faded as she observed someone walking parallel to her on the other side of the street, skulking in the shadows. She fancied she also heard footsteps behind her. She picked up her pace, cursing her stylish but impractical shoes that wobbled on cobblestones.

The lights of the inn were nearing, but someone sat in a wagon before it. Friend or foe? She hesitated, thinking to dart into the shadows and use her special ability to fade out.

“Keep moving,” said a voice so close behind her she could feel the moisture of his breath on the back of her neck. “Go to the wagon.”

It shook her to think he, whoever he was, could close in on her like that without her realizing it. She considered whether she could take him on, or if she should make a run for the inn.

In these shoes? She shook her head.

“Go on,” he said when she hesitated too long. “I got a knife to yer back, and I’ll use it if I hafta.”

“Well, then,” she said, and strode on. His footsteps quickened to catch up with her.

When they reached the wagon, Edwin Turval looked down at her from the bench.

Of course. They must have been spying on her movements. She could kick herself for not being more careful, but she’d been so focused on not mixing clan business with Rider business when it came to the Wayward Inn.

“We are gonna go for a ride,” Edwin said.

“We are, are we?” she said. “Where?”

“Corsa,” Edwin replied. “Your Auntie Stace is real sick again.”

Cold fear clenched her insides. They’d nearly lost her, but the last Karigan had heard, she’d been on the mend and ordering the household around like a general. This was no doubt simply a ploy of Edwin’s to get her in the wagon without a fight. But what if it wasn’t?

“Really?” she said. “How would you know she’s sick?”

“Word came up. We know lotsa fisher folk, some traveling here in the city. They passed us word. We said we’d let you know and bring you home.”

“Did you now,” she murmured. “Funny that no one sent me a message.”

“We are,” he said. “We are giving you the message.”

Karigan frowned. “I see. And what did these fisher folk have to say about my aunt’s illness.”

“Not much. Just that she’s real bad.”

“Uh huh. Well, if it is that bad, I will go to my captain to request leave and take myself to Corsa. As kind as your offer of conveyance is, I do not require it.”

A big hand clamped down on her shoulder—the man behind her. Vernas appeared out of the shadows, and the man who had paced her from across the street joined them, fingering the hilt of a fisher’s knife.

“You’ll be coming with us,” Edwin said. “We’ll take you to Corsa real quick.”

Oh, she bet they would. If the story about Aunt Stace didn’t work, they intended to force her to go with them. She considered her options. Four burly fishermen armed with wickedly sharp knives able to slice through thick trap lines and nets with a single stroke and then, their cutting edges still keen, scale and gut the day’s catch with ease, all against her alone and attired in her cumbersome gown with only her short knife strapped to her leg. Knife fights were nasty, and though Arms Master Drent had trained her in such scenarios, he warned her it was best to avoid them altogether if at all possible. It was too easy to get wounded, even when facing only one adversary, as opposed to four, and she did not fancy being maimed by a knife smeared with whatever nasty, rotten, fishy dross clung to the blade. She’d heard of fishers having to saw off suppurating limbs as the result of simple cuts.

Now, if she had a sword or staff at hand, she’d lay the lot of them flat. She didn’t think they wanted her dead, fortunately, but they did want her married to Vernas. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t hurt her. On the contrary, they’d do what they had to to get hold of the G’ladheon fortune, and Edwin had shown as much with his persistence, even now going against his king’s edict on the matter.

The positive to all of this was that Edwin’s story about Aunt Stace suffering a relapse was probably just that, a story. She decided she’d play along to see where Edwin’s scheme led until she could find a decisive advantage over the men. She had to admit to being curious.

Decision made, she said, “Well, would one of you fine gentlemen give a lady a hand up?”

“Help your intended up onto the wagon,” Edwin ordered Vernas.

Vernas gave her his rough but sweaty hand and she was pleased she seemed to make him nervous. Once she was aboard the wagon, she sat on the bench next to Edwin. Vernas and the other men climbed into the back.

“What a lovely evening for a ride,” she said, as if they were headed off on nothing more nefarious than a picnic excursion into the countryside. One she intended they would soon regret.

Before Edwin urged his mules on, she spied her other self, her dark aspect, standing beneath a street lamp wearing a gown not of garnet, but silvery black, who nodded to her in approval before fading into shadow.

FORTUNE AND MISFORTUNE

“What a lovely evening for a ride,” the girl said.

This was, Edwin Turval thought, going to be easier than he imagined. He’d expected more argument from her after her unladylike conduct when he’d first met her in her father’s office. Perhaps she had come to her senses and recognized that marriage to Vernas had desirable advantages that would create a strong alliance between Turval and G’ladheon. It was certainly pleasing to see her looking a proper merchant girl all gowned up and wearing jewels. The sub-chief medallion shone in the lamplight. Soon it would be Vernas who wore it.

She fell silent beside him as he urged the mules on. He supposed it was possible she believed what he said about Stace and was genuinely concerned. In Corsa they’d heard the news that Stace had, in fact, been ill, but not the particulars, hence the lie.

Their greatest danger was passing through the city gates. “Not a peep out of you,” he warned the girl as they approached the gates.

“Or?” she asked with the uplift of an eyebrow.

“Or you’ll regret it,” Vernas said from the back of the wagon.

Vernas, Edwin thought, was a good son and hard worker, but not particularly subtle. “Am I gonna have to pull down a side street so the lads can bind and gag you and hide you beneath the straw?” he asked. “Or will you stay quiet?”

“Why would you have to do that if we’re going to go see my aunt?” she asked.

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t want the guards to slow us down, y’see.” He grimaced, knowing how bad his attempt at maintaining that pretense sounded.

“Makes sense,” she replied in a flat voice. No, she didn’t believe him at all.

“Kip will have a knife to your back just to make sure,” he said, “you keep quiet.”

“I would expect no less,” she replied.

To Edwin’s relief, she did not alert the guards she was being taken away against her will, nor did they seem to recognize her despite the fact she must often ride through the gates as a messenger. Edwin thought they just might get away with this caper, but he did not breathe until they had finally departed the city.

For the girl’s part, she kept quiet and settled beneath her fancy cloak and seemed to enjoy surveying the night sky. This was more the proper girl he’d expected when he walked into Stevic’s office that day. And yet, he remained nervous. He’d brought Vernas and his boat crew along to subdue her in case she threw a fit. Even though she showed no inclination for bad behavior, and she was unlikely to cause any harm while garbed in that gown, there was a rumor she was some sort of Greenie Weapon or swordmaster or something of the like. He’d laughed it all off. Greenie Weapon? Swordmaster? Not Stevic’s daughter. She carried no sword. In her new life, the only blade she’d be wielding was a gutting knife like a proper fishwife. Clare would teach her the skills she needed.

He, in the meantime, would speak on her and Vernas’ behalf in G’ladheon clan business and he’d have access to all that wealth, not to mention more power in his partnership with Sutton G’ladheon. Oh, yes. Things were looking up for the Turvals. Wouldn’t Stevic G’ladheon be surprised to discover his daughter had run off and married in his absence? And there wouldn’t be a thing he could do about it. Edwin snickered to himself. When the girl gave him a curious glance, he slapped the reins on the mules to urge them on. Heh, he thought, no one would bother to come after her on Black Island. The king would not concern himself over a lowly messenger. And the bull about Eletians? He didn’t believe a bit of it.

“You know, I must admit I look forward to making my grandfather’s acquaintance one day,” the girl said.

Edwin glanced sharply at her. Did she guess their true destination? But he could read nothing of her thoughts. “He is a very great man. Your father and his sisters hurt him deeply when they left the island.”

“Perhaps he should have treated them better.”

“I will not hear ill spoken of him.”

She shrugged. “I suppose meeting him will have to wait. You are taking me to see my aunts, right? Not Black Island.”

“That’s right.”

Her laugh prickled right up his spine and raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Oh, please,” she said, “you need not lie to me. You are defying the king’s will and intend to take me to the island.”

“The king hardly knows Black Island exists, and he won’t worry about a lowly messenger gone missing.”

“You might be surprised,” she said softly.

He braced himself for her to make a fuss, but she remained serene by his side, gazing into the night. She must realize she’d be overpowered if she rebelled.

The countryside was quiet but for an owl hooting and some animal rustling in the near woods, the clip clop of the mules’ hooves. He intended to have her far away from Sacor City and lawfully married to Vernas before the king’s folk even knew she was missing.

• • •

Edwin drove on for a couple hours into the deepening night. Soft light winked to life in the little shrine just up ahead on the side of the road. It was tended by a single priest who’d been less than sober when Edwin had seen him in the morning. Clare and one of his crewmen sat by a fire with a pot warming over it. They stood as he drove up.

“Vernas,” he said, “help your bride down from the wagon.”

“You got her?” Clare asked anxiously.

“Came of her own free will.”

Clare watched in disbelief as Vernas lifted the girl down. “You sure you got the right one?”

Edwin laughed. “Aye, it’s the right one. Now we gotta do the marrying.”

Clare looked uncertain. She had argued against retrieving the girl and feared they’d get in deep trouble for stealing one of the king’s messengers. But islanders didn’t pay much attention to king’s law. They had their own code.

Clare took the girl by the elbow. “Come, child, warm yourself by the fire. You’re all done up for a wedding and everything.”

“Where’s the priest?” Edwin demanded. “Kip, get the priest.”

As Kip shouldered his way into the woods where the priest’s hut lay, the girl gazed about herself and, in particular, at the simple stone alter piled with a jumble of offerings.

“Shrine to Goltera,” she observed. “Not exactly the wedding I was hoping for.”

Goltera, goddess of fertile swine, would ensure the marriage proved fruitful. Not with little piglets, of course, but with heirs worthy of the Turval name. “You’ll get a nice big feast and celebration when we reach the island,” Edwin said.

Vernas strutted about and laughed with the men who were making indecent remarks about how he’d be spending his wedding night. The girl seemed to take it all unflinchingly. Good. Maybe she had a sensible head on her shoulders after all.

Kip pushed the priest through the woods. The fellow staggered toward the fire leaning on a stout staff. The stench of stale ale preceded him in a wave.

“I understand we’ve a wedding to perform.” His words were slightly slurred and his gaze fuzzy. “You’ve a gift for Goltera?”

“Yes, yes,” Edwin said. “Vernas, the gift.”

His son ran to the wagon and returned with a jug of wine and a purse of coppers, and placed them on the altar.

The priest smiled blearily. “Where are the young lovers who are to be wed?”

Before Edwin could grab the girl, she asked, “May I see the marriage agreement first?”

Edwin frowned. “What for? Your grandfather signed it, that’s all you need to know.”

“What about the dowry? My father is not here to sort it out. Also, I’d like to know what I’m getting out of this arrangement.”

Vernas practically beat his chest as he announced, “You’re getting me, a big strong husband, that’s what.” The crew nodded and clapped him on his shoulders in agreement.

“Your secretary looked it over,” Edwin said, “and the king’s man, too. What could you possibly see that they didn’t?”

“That was back when the marriage seemed unlikely,” she replied. “Please, as a favor to your future daughter-in-law on her wedding night, may I see it?”

Edwin’s frown deepened. Educated women who could read were trouble and would lead to the downfall of the realm.

“Please?” she asked again. “Or, is there something you are hiding?”

Vernas was going to have to teach his new wife some lessons in obedience. None of this wheedling. Men who permitted such from their wives were weak.

“Oh, come, Edwin,” Clare said. “Let her see it so she feels comfortable with what she’s marrying into. There is no harm of it.”

“Keep your place,” he ordered her, but Clare gave him that look of hers that told him he was being unreasonable. He relented and pulled the paper out of his pocket. It had a soft texture from being carried around and frequently opened to be viewed. He couldn’t read it himself, but he liked looking at it with all the officially inked words and seals, because it was his and made him feel important. This marriage had been a long time coming and meant he could retire from the water and become a big man on the merchanting scene. Reluctantly he passed the document to the girl.

“Thank you,” she said with a curtsy.

Her deference did much to mollify him, and he watched as she gingerly unfolded the paper and leaned toward the light of the fire to read it.

“Careful,” he warned her, ready to pounce if she got too near the flames.

She looked up from the paper. “I see you do expect quite a dowry.”

“Should be nothing to your father.”

“He might disagree. Oh!—and look, he will receive twenty-five percent take of the season’s catch. That’s quite generous.”

“Aye,” Edwin agreed, pleased she thought so. “Very.”

“Still, it could be better. I would like to think I am worth more than a quarter’s catch of fish. After all, I will bring a good deal of experience to the position.”

He bristled. “Position? You’re to be wife and mother, nothing more.” Clare placed her hand on his arm to calm him.

“Those are very important jobs,” the girl said. “Women can do many things men cannot do on their own, such as bear children, but I bring even more to this union.”

“The terms have already been agreed upon by your grandfather,” he snapped. “If your father has objections, he can try to renegotiate.”

“But you’ll already have what you want: me married to your son.”

“We aren’t barbarians,” he muttered.

She raised an eyebrow at him, but it was too brief for him to tease out what she was thinking. She returned her attention to the document, edging closer to the light and squinting at the fancy script.

“Oh, my,” she said. “First Edwin, and then Vernas upon Edwin’s death, will oversee my part of Clan G’ladheon merchanting ventures, including land caravans, shipping, and so on.”

“Business needs a man’s head,” Vernas declared, “because it’s a man’s game.”

“Does it now,” she said softly, and Edwin detected a slight mocking tone. He frowned again.

“Aye,” Vernas said. He folded his arms across his chest and jutted out his chin. “It does. Better you understand that right from the start, wife.”

The men muttered in agreement around him.

“I must admit,” she said, “it would be a relief to have someone take over what is left of the Clan G’ladheon merchanting venture.”

“What is left?” Edwin asked.

“Why, yes. Had you not heard? We are on the brink of insolvency. You know what the word means, right? Insolvency?”

“What? What are you saying?”

She gazed keenly at him with her one eye, a cold smile on her face. “Are you prepared to take on a bit of debt?” She paused. “Actually, quite a bit . . .”

“What? I don’t believe you. You’re just saying that to put us off.”

Her features sagged with such profound despondence he was taken aback.

“I wish that was true,” she said.

“But—”

“What do you think I was doing at the guild house today?” she asked.

“I dunno.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. I was attempting to preserve the merchant clan my father worked so hard to build, and that is no lie.”

“Did you?” Clare asked. “Did you succeed?”

“It is not looking good,” the girl replied. “Not with all the debt.”

Edwin quaked. She was not lying. He could feel it in his bones. “How much?” When she told him, he felt as if he were falling into a deep chasm.

“I forgot the fee to the merchants guild,” she said, “which is essential if you truly wish to conduct business in Sacoridia. Keep in mind that each province and the larger cities all demand fees.”

When she told him the fee for just Sacor City, he was overcome by a wave of panic. He noted her watching him with that one eye as she gauged his response.

“How could this have happened?” Clare asked. “Your clan is the richest, the—”

“There are other merchant clans that do as well or better,” the girl replied. “When one is in the business long enough, one learns that fortunes can be made and lost. He, or she, who makes more than they lose is the better merchant. Alas, sometimes even the best meets with misfortune.” Then she explained how her father had emptied the warehouses and taken everything to Varos, and how a crooked accountant had stolen the clan’s remaining funds.

“If your father is trading with the Varosians,” Edwin said, trying to work it all out, “he should be returning with even greater wealth.”

“There are never guarantees. One hopes for such an outcome, but trading can go poorly, ships can sink. Regardless, the clan currently owes more than it can pay, has little or no merchandise to sell, and is facing severe punishments if agreements are not honored now. However, I am sure the success of the Turval fishing family will be able to prop up Clan G’ladheon’s merchanting venture. Shall we have the priest come over and perform the ceremony? Then perhaps you could share some food. I have not had anything to eat since morning and I am starving.”

“Hold on,” Edwin said, gesturing for the priest to keep his distance. “Maybe, heh, I am expecting too much of this union.”

“You now wish to renege on the agreement with my grandfather?” she demanded.

“All that debt,” he said. “Maybe we can, um, defer until later when, um . . .”

“When the G’ladheon merchanting venture is on sound footing once again?”

“I’m just saying, that’s not a dowry. It’s financial ruin.”

“If you are not willing to take on the debt, then I guess the wedding is off. I am sorry, dear Vernas, that our first night of wedded bliss will not be consummated.” She dropped the document into the fire.

“Wait!” Edwin cried. He tried grabbing after the paper but only burned his hands. He howled in pain.

“You—you!” he yelled at her. He wanted to say the worst, but it was all bottled up inside by the pain of his burned hands and the shock of his plans gone awry.

“Oh, dear,” she said, “you’ve changed your mind?”

She mocked him, played games. She had burned his document. “You have ruined everything!”

“You should be thanking me for saving you from all that debt.”

“You!” He leaped at her, desiring nothing more than to slap and shake her as she deserved for all that had gone wrong, but the next thing he knew, he was on the ground staring into the starry sky. How had she . . . ?

Somehow the girl had gotten hold of the priest’s staff, and now she turned it on his men. She swept the staff round. It rose and fell so fast that it was hard to follow. The girl’s skirts flared and whirled around her, and her shoes flew off her feet as she moved in a tempestuous dance. In mere seconds, it was over. His men lay limp on the ground and groaned. One of them was unconscious. Only Vernas still stood in a defensive crouch. He took a tentative step forward as if to take her on.

“Wanna try me?” she goaded.

Vernas licked his lips and backed off.

Edwin pushed himself onto his elbows. “Whore!” he yelled. “I’ll teach you—” But a deep, unnatural chill settled into his bones. The fire died back and the night thickened. Dread flooded through him, a formless, unknown terror.

“Edwin,” Clare whispered. She knelt beside him and clutched his sleeve.

A shape darker than the night stood on the edge of the woods behind the girl. It hissed and Edwin’s blood froze in his veins. Cold sweat trickled down his face.

Nearby, the priest fell to his knees and made the sign of the crescent moon. He started to pray fervently.

“What the hells?” But Edwin’s quavering voice seemed lost in the depths of an abyss.

A horror stepped out of the woods, its undead countenance defined by a shadow, a twisted iron crown upon its brow. Rags wafted about its form in no natural breeze.

“Galadheon.” The name wheezed out of its maw. “We seek the Galadheon.”

Edwin wanted to scream. He thought Clare and Vernas did. But the girl . . . The girl turned to face the horror and calmly said, “You seek the Galadheon, and you have found her.”

THE WINDING OF WORMS

Karigan was proud of herself. She was going to get herself out of this ridiculous Turval situation without a fight, but sadly, Edwin, and then his men, tried to grab her. Without thinking, she swiped the staff from the priest’s grasp and her training took over. In moments they all lay on the ground either unconscious or with the wind knocked out of them from swift strikes of the staff. They hadn’t stood a chance against her superior skill.

Clare stared agog, and the priest held himself up against a nearby tree eyeing the jug of wine on the altar. Vernas cowered before her but tried to look tough, torn between losing face or finding himself at the mercy of her staff.

Cold damp oozed through Karigan’s stockings. She did not take her eyes off Vernas in order to locate her shoes. When he gathered his courage enough to take a step toward her, she demanded, “Wanna try me?” The staff whistled into an attack position.

Vernas licked his lips and backed off.

“Whore!” Edwin cried. “I’ll teach you—”

She fixed her grip on the staff. He would teach her? Her dark self wanted him to try. The trouble with men like Edwin was that they never learned. And they called her stubborn. She liked to think she learned from her mistakes, at least sometimes. As for Clare, she found herself pitying the woman for being married to the nitwit.

A tart response was on the tip of her tongue when the air iced over. Her breath steamed from her mouth and her skin prickled. Shadow seeped into her vision, and crushing hopelessness and terror made her want to just give up and curl in a ball on the ground.

“Edwin,” Clare whispered.

A hiss behind Karigan made her heart stutter. It was not an animal, nor was it entirely human. The priest dropped to his knees and started to pray.

Dread engulfed her. It carried a familiar tang of rot, of all that molders in the grave.

“Galadheon.” The voice rasped like rusty hinges, a voice belonging to one long entombed in the deeps of the earth who knows intimately the windings of worms. “We seek the Galadheon.”

Shaking, she turned and saw the wraith, its dead, flinty eyes boring into her, its rags wavering in a breeze.

“You seek the Galadheon, and you have found her,” she replied, trying to keep her voice from breaking.

“You must come.” Its mouth was a bloodless crack in a face of cockled parchment. “Our master calls.”

So Mornhavon was truly awake. And he wanted her for what? Revenge? To account for her ancestor, Hadriax el Fex, who had betrayed him so long ago? Or for the times she had outwitted or injured him?

“He is no master of mine,” she said. “Begone, wraith of rags. I ended Varadgrim and I can do the same to you.” Actually, it had been the First Rider, Lil Ambrioth, occupying her body, who had killed the wraith, Varadgrim. Unfortunately, Lil was not present to help her now.

The creature hissed and drew a dagger ornamented with foul symbols. The blade gleamed with a cold, blue light. “You will come, betrayer.”

“I will not.” She adjusted her grip on the staff. Neither the Turvals, their crew, nor the priest were going to be of any help, so she was on her own. She did not think her staff, or the knife strapped to her leg beneath her skirts, would be much of an aid against the creature, but there was another item she carried in a concealed pocket she’d had specially sewn into the gown, and when she took it out, silvery white light blazed and flooded the area around the shrine, turning night into day. The wraith recoiled, unable to bear the light for it was that of an ancient silver moon that had once shone over the lost Eletian realm of Argenthyne caught in the crystal she held. It was a moonstone that the Eletians called muna’riel.

The wraith squinted at her. Smoke threaded from its eyes, the purity of the light too much for its shadow existence to endure. Though it quailed, it did not flee. Instead, it threw its head back and howled in abject pain. How many centuries had it lain imprisoned in its tomb? How long since it had seen such light?

The howl changed with intonations of a language she did not know. It was foul and throbbed in her ears. The stone altar of Goltera split in two with a thunderous crack. Tendrils of poisonous shadows rose about the wraith and pushed the light away. Her moonstone sputtered, faltered.

Hoofbeats throbbed within and without her. Knowledge came to her on a supernatural wind carried by the steed of the death god. Knowledge that this wraith had once been Terrandon, Lord of the South, and that in ancient times, he had practiced dark arts and brought death upon his own people by the hundreds of thousands. In exchange for such power and unending life, he and his brethren had forfeited their souls when they swore allegiance to Mornhavon the Black. At the conclusion of the Long War, King Jonaeus judged them traitors and they were buried alive, condemned to lie in deathless torment imprisoned in their graves for all eternity.

Salvistar’s hooves pounded like her own heartbeat. The knowledge his presence infused in her came from the death god himself, for she was his avatar, and the avatar must end the existence of the deathless wraith.

However, even as Salvistar arrived, before she became clad in the star steel of the gods, arrows sang through the air, flaring as they passed through the radiance of her moonstone and drew silver tails behind them like shooting stars. They soared into the wraith’s shadows. Dozens of white arrows, Eletian arrows, impaled the Terrandon wraith, volley after volley until it exploded into ashes and its empty rags rustled to the ground. Just like that, the confrontation was over. She leaned on the staff in relief.

She perceived Salvistar on the edge of her vision. He tossed his head before turning on his haunches and galloped away, vanishing into the dark. Soon his hoofbeats receded. The intervention by Eletians spared her the duty of serving the death god this night.

A group of Eletians stepped into the light. Three immediately moved to inspect what remained of the wraith. Nine others came before her and went to their knees.

“Dama,” said the foremost Eletian. His name was Telagioth and his eyes of cerulean blue glistened in the silvery light. “We were on our way to the city when we saw the muna’riel flare and felt the presence of the dark one.”

“Your timing was very good,” she replied. An understatement, and fitting Telagioth should be the one to appear now, for she had first met him when Varadgrim freed himself of his tomb a few years back.

She recognized the others who accompanied him—Lhean, Idris, and others, but her gaze was drawn to one who hung back behind them. He would not meet her gaze and he shone less brilliantly in the moonstone light. Enver.

All at once she wanted to cry out in gladness to see him, and, yet, felt wary. Their parting after their emissary business with the p’ehdrose had been difficult and painful.

“Please, you need not kneel.”

“Ah, but we do,” Telagioth replied, “for you are the Cearing Asai’riel.”

The three who had inspected the remains of the wraith approached and bowed. “It is truly extinguished,” one of them said. “Its crown has dissolved into the earth.”

“Shoshan,” Karigan said in greeting. Shoshan and her companions had served briefly as her escorts last summer.

“It is a privilege to see you again, Dama,” the Eletian replied. Then she held the cruel dagger of the wraith upon her palm. “The wraith would have enslaved you with this, making you one of them.”

Karigan shuddered and took a step back. “A soul stealer?”

“Of a sort, but more a living death. The hilt is made of the black wood of Kanmorhan Vane.”

“We will unmake it,” Telagioth said. “It should have been broken when the creature that was Terrandon was interred in its tomb.”

At the sound of weeping, Karigan recalled the Turvals. Vernas was crying into Clare’s shoulder. A couple of the men appeared to be in a state of shock. Edwin shook his head muttering, “I didn’t believe him, I didn’t believe him . . .”

He meant, she was sure, King Zachary.

The Eletians set about aiding them, tending their hurts and providing them with sips of a heartening cordial from a flask. Karigan found her shoes and slipped them on and returned the staff to the priest who accepted it with thanks.

“The presence of the evil spirit was too much for Goltera.” He gestured at the broken altar. “I have been too lax in my duties.”

“What will you do?” she asked.

“I will repair or remake the altar, and wear a hairshirt. No food and only water for a fortnight.”

That would take some discipline, she thought, for it appeared he was accustomed to libations other than water, though the wraith seemed to have inspired something of a sobering effect on him.

“This is an old sacred ground of your people, holy man,” Telagioth said, joining them. “From a time before the First Age. That altar was used as such even back then. There used to be a circle of stones near here that served the people as a calendar and a place of ritual.” He spoke as one who had witnessed its use in those eldest of days.

“Aye, bright one,” the priest replied. “One or two still stand in the woods. The others have fallen and disappeared beneath the forest growth. I will repair the altar stone. Would be a shame to replace it if that has always been its use. Stone may crack, but faith perseveres.”

With that, he ambled off through the woods toward his hut.

“We will escort you back to Sacor City,” Telagioth told Karigan, “for we desire an audience with your king.”

“I wondered why you were traveling this way.”

“We also wish an audience with you, Dama.”

“You do not need to be so formal.”

“You are our Dama,” he replied. “But what of these other people? We have helped them and can be on our way, unless there is a reason they are bruised as if by a stave. Is further intervention required?”

Karigan briefly explained the situation with the Turvals. Telagioth raised his eyebrows.

“I just need a word with them,” she added.

“If you are certain that is all,” he replied doubtfully.

“It is, for now.”

He bowed and stepped aside.

When she approached Edwin, he was seated on a rock looking dazed, his burned hands wrapped in gauzy bandages.

“I don’t rightly know what you are,” he told her. “On the island, the older folks always said your momma and her momma, and all the Gray women before them were fey, but I thought it was just talk, superstition. Turns out the rumors are true.”

“Edwin,” Clare chided, “don’t you go disrespecting the girl’s family—she put herself between us and that—that evil thing.”

“Which only proves my point,” he snapped. “She’s not normal. Cursed is what she is.” He turned his baleful gaze back on Karigan. “I don’t need my son marrying some cursed demon girl.”

Clare gave him an exasperated look and walked away, shaking her head.

Anger brimmed inside Karigan but she chose not to respond to his words about her mother or being a “cursed demon girl,” except to say, “What I am is the king’s own Green Rider, and a very annoyed one. You abducted me and—”

“You came willingly,” Edwin interjected.

“And if I had not?”

He did not reply. It was answer enough.

“You abducted me, tried to force me into a marriage without the consent of my father or me, and against the explicit wishes of our king, and then attacked me. You can be assured King Zachary will hear of it in detail. I suggest you return to Black Island with haste and await the king’s justice there. And oh, yes, the king’s justice will find you no matter where you go. You defied his direct command and broke his laws, including the one that protects Green Riders. May he show you mercy.”

She turned on her heel to walk away but halted and turned back. “One more thing. If you ever set foot near any member of Clan G’ladheon again, or if I see your likeness, I will not be so gentle next time.”

She strode back toward the Eletians.

“Are you sure you would not prefer us to execute these Turvals?” Telagioth asked.

“Execute?” she said in surprise.

“It is appropriate for the crimes they committed upon our Dama.”

She watched the Turvals as they climbed into their wagon and set off down the road. Her dark self thrilled at the idea of such retribution, but she quickly brushed it aside.

“No. No execution. They fall under the jurisdiction of king’s law.”

She felt very tired, and it would be a longer night still since they must walk all the way to Sacor City. Before they left, however, she had one more piece of business she wished to confront.

“Enver,” she said.

A RIDE IN THE MOONLIGHT

He came before her on his knee and extended to her an object she had never expected to see again.

“Don’t you kneel,” she told him. “And tell me how you found my staff. I thought it lost forever.”

He stood in one fluid movement and passed it to her, but he did not meet her gaze. “It is only proper that we pay obeisance.”

She wanted to yell at him that it wasn’t, that it was all upside down. She was no more worthy or royal, Eletian or otherwise, than a rock. Instead, she quietly replied, “But we are friends.” She weighed the staff in her hands. The black lacquered wood was in perfect condition and felt so good to have in her possession once more. “We went through much together.”

He peered cautiously at her. “Are we friends? I thought, I mean, after our parting when you saw how I was . . .”

“The accendu’melos,” she said.

He gazed down at his feet again. “Yes.”

She touched his arm and he flinched. She withdrew her hand, a little stung by his reaction, but she thought she understood.

“I am ashamed by that day,” he said. “I would have hurt you. Not because I wished to, but it is the Eletian nature at the time of . . . maturation.”

“But you did not hurt me because you are strong.” She thought back to the wild passion that had overcome his usual serene and amicable self. “You resisted and gave me time to flee. There is no shame in that.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, “though I wish you had not seen me thus.”

“It was not you, but your Eletian nature.”

He bowed his head. “Yes, Dama.” He started to back away.

“Wait.”

He halted.

The other Eletians kept their distance, but seemed to watch with interest.

“My staff. How did you come upon it?”

“I found it along the road you call Kingway.”

What had he been doing on the Kingway? Eletian vision was sharp, but he just happened to find it?

“Dama,” Telagioth said, stepping forward, “it grows late. We will escort you to the city using the ways.”

She glanced toward Enver, but he had already moved off. Well, she’d get to the bottom of how he found her staff sooner or later.

“Very well,” she told Telagioth.

They stepped away from the road and walked into the woods, leaving behind the shrine of Goltera. Only a few paces into the moonlit wood, they passed one of the ancient standing stones Telagioth and the priest had discussed. It was at least twice her height and quite broad. Mute and shadowed it stood, a sentinel of another time.

“There is still some small power around the altar and this stone,” Telagioth said, “but like so much, it has waned over the millennia.”

Karigan lifted her skirts to step over a moldering log. “Magic, you mean.”

“Not so much magic as an energy of spirit,” he replied. “The belief of many poured into it. The calendar stones marked high holy days filled with ritual and celebration, and thus were sacred to the people.”

As they walked, she noted that Enver fell toward the rear of the group while she remained up front with Telagioth. Perhaps it was better this way, but she hoped they would somehow overcome their awkwardness.

Walking soon became easier, level with few rocks and roots to stumble over, and cushioning moss underfoot. Moonlight pooled on the ground as if to guide them. They’d no need of muna’riel to lighten the dark. She suspected they were already traveling on one of the Eletian “ways,” what Enver had once described as “Eletian paths that know my kind.” He had been their guide, and with his assistance and the use of her special ability, she could see it, but when she had tried to follow the ways from the north in the spring, she couldn’t seem to keep the trail in her mind’s eye and got lost in the wild woods. She’d ended up bushwhacking for days.

She also had a feeling the ways were not permanent paths; maybe they even existed in another layer of the world, but they eased travel and seemed to shorten distance. Still, it was going to be a long walk in her silly city shoes. She could already feel blisters forming on her heels. And she was famished. Her stomach made a pronounced gurgle and Telagioth halted. Her cheeks warmed in embarrassment.

“Many pardons, Dama,” Telagioth said. “You were taken from your city involuntarily only to come face to face with a dark one, and we’ve provided you with little succor. We will amend this oversight while we await the arrival of the terrial’ada.”

“The terrial’ada are coming?” They were a breed of horse that apparently agreed to carry Eletians at times.

“Yes,” Telagioth replied. “Even upon the ways it is still a long walk, and you are not prepared for it. One of the terrial’ada will bear you and you will reach your castle swiftly. In the meantime, you may rest and have to eat and drink anything we’ve to offer.”

There were some benefits to being the “Dama,” after all. They spread a blanket on the ground for her to sit on, and she accepted a skin of cool, pure water to slake her thirst, and sweet oat cakes, mild cheese, and an apple that tasted like honey. Some of the others sang, their beautiful voices almost as natural to the night woods as that of owls, wolves, and the breeze tousling tree branches. She began to doze off with her belly content and the soothing tones of the song relaxing her. The turmoil of her clan’s delicate position, the attempt by the Turvals to take her away and force her to marry, and her frightening confrontation with the wraith all drifted away, and she rested in serenity.

As the singing concluded, she opened her eyes, still feeling peaceful and quite revived. Only a few of the Eletians were visible, quietly talking among themselves. Enver was not among them.

“What was the song?” Karigan asked Telagioth, who sat nearby.

“A simple song of the night,” he replied, “calling down the light of the moon and stars, and expressing joy in the life and beauty of the dark.”

She smiled. It all sounded so very Eletian.

Telagioth cocked his head. “Ah, the terrial’ada have arrived.”

Four horses soundlessly trotted into the clearing. Their gleaming silver-white hides flickered as they passed through the long shadows of tree limbs cast by the moon.

“Can you ride bareback, Dama?”

She was not exactly dressed for it, but it was better than walking to Sacor City, Eletian ways or no. “I can, but no bridles?”

“Not needed,” Telagioth replied, “with the terrial’ada.”

Karigan recalled the one Enver had ridden on their journey north. It had worn a bridle, but it hadn’t a bit.

“Riverrain has agreed to allow you to ride him,” Telagioth said, and he helped her mount the sleek stallion. “You need not be aggressive with your cues. He knows where we are going and will do nothing that would cause you to fall. You have but to enjoy the ride.”

“I believe I certainly will.” She ran her hand over Riverrain’s silken, muscular neck. He blew softly through his nose as if pleased by her words.

She’d had to hike up her skirts to mount, but fortunately they had enough drape that they flowed over her knees and behind her on his back as she sat astride. When she’d prepared for her appointment with the guild masters earlier in the day, she’d had no idea she’d be riding so magical a steed in the moonlight with Eletians.

She, Telagioth, Lhean, and Shoshan set off. She barely touched Riverrain’s sides with her legs than he moved out. They traveled at a leisurely canter along an easy path that Karigan knew she’d never find on her own. Riding Riverrain was one of the most comfortable riding experiences she’d ever had, even bareback. The close contact between them allowed her to feel his warmth, energy, and power, the liveliness of muscle and stride.

Lhean rode beside her, and she asked, “Where do the terrial’ada come from?”

“Their range brushes against Eletia’s borders to the west,” he replied.

The Wanda Plains, north of where Green Rider horses came from. She thought to pepper him with questions about the horses, like why their existence did not seem to be known outside Eletia, but she decided to follow Telagioth’s advice and enjoy the ride. Soon enough they would reach the castle and she’d find out what the Eletians wanted, because they always wanted something when they came to Sacor City, and it always led to unpleasant adventures for her.

THAT THING SHE DID WITH THE LIGHT

The terrial’ada flowed over the land like water coursing over a riverbed. They were untiring, and the countryside passed so swiftly that Karigan lost track of where they were until the city lay before them. They blurred past cairns of the dead from the recent battle with Second Empire and across open land toward the main gate.

Riverrain gently eased to a trot and then a walk in their approach. A strand of hair that had come loose from one of her many pins and hair chain tickled her cheek. She brushed it back.

“You will need to speak to your people for us, Dama,” Telagioth said, “so they are not alarmed by the sudden appearance of Eletians at so late an hour.”

She nodded and rode ahead to the main gate while her companions waited some distance behind. Two guards stood in the gateway just inside while others kept watch from the walls. The two gazed curiously at her. She must be quite a sight in her gown riding a stallion of exquisite beauty without a saddle or bridle.

“You must state your business for entry after sundown,” one of the guards said.

“I am Rider G’ladheon and I’ve urgent business with the king.”

“Right, and I’m the Emperor of Illydria.”

His companion laughed.

Karigan was not in the mood for this. “Is Sergeant Keen on duty tonight?”

The “Emperor of Illydria” gave her another look. “No.”

“Look, I’m not on official duty,” Karigan said, “but I am a Green Rider, Rider G’ladheon, and I need to present my companions to the king.” She pointed back toward Telagioth, Lhean, and Shoshan sitting quietly on their steeds. “They are emissaries of Eletia.”

“No foreign folk without travel papers,” the guard said, “and how are we supposed to know you’re a Greenie? That’s no Greenie horse. Can you prove who you are?”

There were many guards in the city, and they rotated among the walls, gates, and the castle itself so that they didn’t become complacent and make mistakes. It wasn’t surprising that some didn’t recognize her, especially out of uniform. Her merchant rings and medallion would mean nothing to them. They could not see her Rider brooch because of the spell that concealed it. She carried no credentials with which to identify herself.

“Tell her to do that thing with the light,” said a guard up in one of the towers. “If she’s Rider G’ladheon, she can do the thing with that light like the night the city was burning.”

“You got that light?” the “Emperor” asked.

She sighed. She was reluctant to exhibit magic, especially Eletian magic, considering Sacoridian attitudes, and also the notoriety of using the moonstone the night of the fire had brought her. However, if revealing her moonstone was what it took to prove her identity, it was better than spending a cold night outside the city walls when her need was to reach her king with the Eletian embassy.

She removed the moonstone from its special pocket and its glow grew upon her palm. It captured the surprise on the faces of the guards. It did not flare and expand like it had earlier during her confrontation with the wraith, nor like the night of the fire when it had seemed to touch the heavens, but its light was startling and pure, and could never be mistaken for evil.

“You’re her,” the guard standing beside the Emperor said. “You’re the Spirit of Light. You saved my gramma from the lower city when it was burning.”

“And my brother and his family,” said another on the wall.

Others added their voices to the chorus. Karigan doused her moonstone and placed it in her pocket. The world always seemed to sag when the light of a muna’riel was extinguished, and there were audible sighs among the guards.

“Right,” said the Emperor. “Sorry to detain you, Rider. You just don’t look, er, Riderly tonight.”

“Don’t I know it,” she muttered.

“Please proceed with your companions.”

When the Eletians rejoined her, they rode through the city. Few were about to see them, and those who did shook their heads, thinking the fancy lady and her shining companions but a dream. The quiet streets allowed them to ride swiftly and unhindered, and they received little resistance at the gate to the middle city. At the castle gate, it took a moment, but the guards eventually recognized her and admitted them.

In the drive before the castle entrance, the soldier who came to take their horses looked upon the Eletians and terrial’ada in surprise.

“You need but refresh them with clean water,” Telagioth told the soldier. “And if you’ve pasturage where they could await us, it would ensure their comfort.”

“Take them to Rider stables,” Karigan said. “They’ll like our pasture. Tell Hep Rider G’ladheon sent you.” She then instructed him to ask Hep to send someone after Condor down in the city.

The man said he would do this, but he looked at Riverrain and the other horses with a puzzled expression on his face. “Uh . . . Halters? Lead ropes?”

“Simply guide them and they will follow,” Telagioth said. “They require no halters or lead ropes.”

The terrial’ada surrounded the man and looked expectantly at him. He cleared his throat. “This way.”

Karigan watched for a moment as the horses followed him in the direction of Rider stables; then she clutched her skirts and led the Eletians up the castle steps.

“Please find someone to inform the king that an embassy of Eletians has arrived to see him,” Karigan told a soldier inside the entrance.

When the soldier hesitated, shifting his gaze from her to the Eletians and then back again, he said, “And who shall I say accompanies them?”

“Rider G’ladheon.” Her exasperation came out in her voice. Could they not recognize her when she was not in green? Was she so transformed by a gown?

“Of course, Rider,” he said.

“Also, send runners for the king’s advisers and Captain Connly, too,” she told him.

She led the Eletians to the throne room where she once again had to explain who she was to the guards. As they awaited the king, Telagioth gazed with interest at the ceiling of the throne room where Zachary’s ancestors were painted. Lhean and Shoshan stood nearby in meditative peace. In contrast, Karigan paced, her gown flowing around her ankles. The skirts, she noted, were covered in Riverrain’s white hair. Magical horses, indeed, shedding all over her fine gown.

Connly arrived first. He stumbled to a halt as he took in her appearance. “What in the name of the gods is going on?”

“Long story,” she said.

He sighed. “Usually is with you.”

He bowed to the Eletians as he was introduced.

The arrival of six Weapons preceded the entrance of Zachary and Estora, and counselors Tallman and Javien.

After Zachary and Estora sat upon their thrones and courtesies were exchanged, Zachary gave her a long look as if trying to make sense of her appearance along with the presence of three Eletians. Self-consciously she pushed back loose strands of hair, but overall, she was proud of the fact that she was not covered in mud for once, and that her gown was in one piece. She was pleased to realize she had come through the day’s experiences quite intact, and it was nice for a change. She would have preferred time to freshen up and exchange her merchant’s garb for her uniform before entering the throne room, but it had not been possible. She was afraid her gown, medallion, and clan rings were going to raise questions she’d rather not answer. She had spoken to no one of Clan G’ladheon’s troubles.

“We are pleased to welcome emissaries from our ally, Eletia,” Zachary said. “To what may we owe this honor?”

“Firebrand,” Telagioth said, addressing Zachary with the name the Eletians used for him, “we have been sent forth with tidings for you, as well as for our Dama Cearing Asai’riel.”

Before he could say more, chairs were brought in so all could sit, and wine poured. A servant Estora had spoken to brought in a small amount of chocolate on a silver tray. The Eletians were delighted for it held some healthful benefit to them, aside from being delicious.

“You are most gracious hosts,” Telagioth said with a glitter in his eye. “It is our hope to visit the master of chocolate before we depart the city.”

“I am afraid the war has made the acquisition of sugar and cocoa required in the making of chocolate difficult,” Zachary explained. “Master Gruntler may not be able to supply you as you wish, but we will make inquiries.” With a nod, Castellan Javien briefly left to arrange for “inquiries.” “This offering comes from the queen’s personal stores.”

Telagioth bowed to Estora. “I thank you, most gracious lady.”

“It is my pleasure,” she replied.

When the castellan returned, Telagioth said, “The tidings I bring are both fair and grave, but the first would not be possible without the second. In Eletia, there is great rejoicing for our king has awakened from the Great Sleep to once more lead his people into war.”

“Your king?” Counselor Tallman said. “Do you mean . . .?”

“King Santanara,” Zachary said softly.

“It is so,” Telagioth replied.

A thrill of excitement coursed through Karigan. King Santanara was a legend of the Long War and she’d met him briefly during a passage into the past.

“This is momentous news,” Zachary said. “I do not pretend to understand how this is possible, but it is most welcome news.”

“One must not mistake the Great Sleep for total oblivion of the world,” Telagioth explained. “Sleepers may maintain varying levels of awareness to what is happening. The roots of the tall trees in the Grove grow deep and vast into the earth, and the branches stretch far into the sky. It is possible to receive etheric impulses from afar even among the deepest of Sleepers. Our Ari-matiel Jametari also visited the Grove often to speak to his father, to tell him what he knew of the world. King Santanara decided it was time to awaken, which, alas, brings us to the grave tidings. He has felt that Mornhavon has also awakened and that conflict will soon be upon us, perhaps even before the arrival of spring.”

“So soon?” Zachary murmured. “We are aware of Blackveil stirring. Painfully so, but your king is certain Mornhavon will make his move this spring or sooner? If so, the news you bear is grave, indeed.”

“Yes, Firebrand,” Telagioth replied. “Only this night we’ve confirmation after an attack on our Dama.”

Zachary’s gaze whipped to Karigan, a wildness in his eyes. “Karigan?”

A CONFLICT OF FEALTY

Karigan thought Zachary might leap down the stairs to reach her.

“I’m fine!” she hastily reassured him. “The Eletians arrived at the right time.”

“Someone best tell me what happened,” he said, little mollified.

“Allow me,” Telagioth said with a bow, unruffled by Zachary’s sharp demeanor.

Zachary nodded and sat once more upon his throne. His gaze, however, scarcely left Karigan. She noticed that Estora looked unsurprised by his fierce reaction.

“We knew of Blackveil’s awakening,” Telagioth said, “because our good King Santanara shares, shall we say, something of a bond with his foe of old that creates the slightest awareness between them. And if that is not enough, Mornhavon has called forth two of his vile lieutenants, one of whom sought out our Dama this night.”

Zachary’s gaze upon her was intense, but this time he contained himself.

“There were once four of these lieutenants,” Telagioth continued, “who were betrayers of your people and served Mornhavon. One was Mirdhwell, who was banished from existence on these very castle grounds by one of your messengers.”

“Mara Brennyn,” Karigan supplied.

“I remember,” Zachary said.

“Our Dama, with the help of the spirit of Liliedhe Ambriodhe, destroyed the one known as Varadgrim.”

“Hence the two who remain,” Zachary said.

“It is so,” Telagioth replied. “They were unable to rise when the first two had five years ago. They are Terrandon of the south, and Lichant of the east.”

Estora shuddered so visibly they all glanced at her. “In Coutre,” she explained, “there are stories, nightmarish stories, that are told to children of a terrible dark spirit, Lykant and his black sword, who carries off those who are naughty. My nurse told me these tales to make me behave when I was a little child and soon regretted it when I had such nightmares. Only as an adult did I learn there was some truth to his existence, a terrible dark lord of the east who betrayed and murdered his own people. There is an old cairn on a desolate bluff where it was said he was buried.”

“The deeds he committed in service to Mornhavon during the Long War were abhorrent,” Telagioth said, “atrocities far worse than any story your nurse would have told.”

“I believe it.” She pulled her cloak about her as though chilled.

“And now he walks the lands,” Telagioth said. “Mornhavon succeeded in raising the two this time, and just this night we slew Terrandon as it searched for the descendent of Hadriax el Fex.”

Zachary’s gaze fell once more on Karigan, a gaze full of questions and, yes, concern. She shifted uncomfortably on her chair and looked down at her hands.

“Rider G’ladheon?” Castellan Javien asked. “Why?”

Telagioth shrugged. “An old grudge against the man who betrayed him, perhaps, for Mornhavon was always the one to carry such. Or perhaps because of the injuries she caused him, or because of his hatred for Liliedhe Ambriodhe and King Santanara who defeated him a thousand years ago.

“It is fortunate, in any case, that we saw the light of our Dama’s muna’riel as we traveled this night, for if not, she might not have held off the Terrandon wraith on her own.”

“Rider,” Zachary said, a keen glint in his eye, “would you care to explain where you were tonight that you met this wraith?”

It was clear from his expression that more questions were left unasked, like why was she wearing a gown? Where had she been and why? She wilted in her chair, not really wanting to go into it all. She would have to explain about the merchants guild and the Turvals, but for the purpose of the present discussion, brevity would suffice and spare her from recounting every detail.

“I was on the Corsa Road, just south of the crossroads. There is an old shrine to Goltera there.”

Zachary opened his mouth as if to ask what in the name of the hells she was doing at a shrine of Goltera dressed in a gown, no less, but just as quickly seemed to decide to withhold that line of questioning.

“The wraith simply arrived out of the dark,” she continued. “And yes, it was looking for me. Fortunately I had my moonstone with me and Telagioth and his tiendan saw my light.”

So many questions lingered in his eyes as he gazed at her. Abruptly he turned his attention back to Telagioth. “This Terrandon wraith is truly slain?”

“Yes, Firebrand, with many Eletian arrows. It will not rise again. However, the other, perhaps the deadliest of the four, is still at large.”

“We should,” Les Tallman said, “send a squad of our elite trackers to hunt it down and slay it.”

Telagioth looked doubtful it would prove successful. “I would caution you that the wraiths are not easily slain.”

“But three have been.”

“Not easily,” Telagioth countered.

“We are thankful then that you were there to help Rider G’ladheon,” Zachary said. “I do find merit in the counselor’s suggestion. If we can track its movement, we can be prepared against where it may strike next.”

This point Telagioth did not argue.

“Do you bear further news from King Santanara?” Zachary asked.

“He wishes to reaffirm that your Rider G’ladheon is, among the Eletian people, the Dama Cearing Asai’riel, daughter to the king. It was he who instructed Prince Jametari to declare it while he still Slept, and he wishes to ensure it is acknowledged by the king of Sacoridia and that she is treated with due courtesy.”

“We acknowledge her status among the Eletians,” Zachary replied, “though we are curious as to why this step was taken. Rider G’ladheon herself is reluctant to embrace it. It is also important to acknowledge that the father who sired and raised her has some stake in this development and is not here to speak on his own behalf. She is also a citizen of Sacoridia who serves her king and country. We wonder about a conflict as to whom she owes fealty.”

Truthfully, Karigan had not thought deeply enough about the situation to consider a possible conflict about who she was to serve. In fact, she’d tried not to think about her Eletian status at all. Jametari’s proclamation had come out of nowhere, and it was hard to know what it all meant, so she had continued on with her life as normally as possible. Now that she thought about it, however, there was no conflict in her heart as to who she served.

“King Santanara,” Telagioth said, “acknowledges that the Asai’riel’s home is Sacoridia and its king her sovereign whom she serves. Though she is welcome to visit the Elt Wood anytime, there are no requirements imposed upon her to serve. King Santanara will not interfere with her life in Sacoridia.”

“Then why adopt her into the House of Santanara to begin with?” Zachary demanded, voicing Karigan’s own question.

Telagioth paused. It was an uncharacteristic pause. “With your forbearance, Your Majesty, we should like to speak with the Asai’riel privately about her father, the king of Eletia, at another time.”

“Of course,” Zachary replied.

They had better not make her wait too long, Karigan thought. She wanted answers.

Down in the city, the bells struck out the late hour while silence reigned in the throne room.

“Is there more?” Zachary asked.

“There is more on the disposition of Eletia,” Telagioth replied, “but I believe that can wait until daylight when your people are less weary. I suspect the Asai’riel has had a long day.”

“We can ready a suite of rooms for you,” Castellan Javien said.

“My thanks, but we will return to the countryside where the rest of our folk await.”

They arranged to meet in the morning and made their farewells. Karigan watched the Eletians exit the throne room. Zachary, however, did not dismiss the rest of them.

“A wraith?” he asked her. “Eletians? Do I even want to know what you were doing down by a shrine to Goltera south of the crossroads on the Corsa Road and so . . . unconventionally attired?”

Probably not, she thought. “Almost getting married.” To her astonished onlookers she explained how she was taken by the Turvals after her appointment at the guild house. Mention of the merchants guild seemed to address their curiosity about her “unconventional” attire, thankfully without the details of her clan’s problems. She ended with her return ride with the Eletians.

“The Turvals will be dealt with,” Zachary assured her. “They defied my explicit instructions and attempted to abduct one of my own Green Riders. But tell me, Rider, what in the name of all that is good possessed you to leave the city with the Turvals without resisting? It is not as if you are not capable.”

Karigan suppressed a smile at the last.

“That is what I’d like to know, as well,” Connly muttered.

“It was a combination of factors,” she replied. “They told me my aunt was doing poorly and they would take me to Corsa. She had been ill over the summer and they knew of it. I assumed it was a lie and they weren’t taking me to see my aunt, but I had to be sure. I also wished to avoid a fight if at all possible. Four hardy men with sharp knives against just me, and me in my gown with only hairpins and a short knife with which to defend myself, did not seem like good odds.

“And finally, I wanted to find out how far they were planning to go with their scheme. It turns out they had a priest ready to perform the ceremony and were going to continue on afterward to Corsa where their boat was anchored, and then set straight off to Black Island.

“At that point, by playing along, I got my hands on the marriage contract and tossed it into the fire. It angered them and that’s when I . . . handled them. I used the priest’s staff. Before I left with the Eletians to return here, I reminded them of His Majesty’s command and informed them they would meet with His justice. They were rattled after the appearance of the wraith, but I think I got the message across.”

Connly’s face was in his palm. Zachary stared at the ceiling. Estora tried to hide her amusement. Javien and Tallman gazed at her in disbelief.

“It was my rest day,” she said, “so I was allowed to leave the city on personal business, wasn’t I?”

When Zachary looked at her once more, his expression was inscrutable. Then he shook his head. “While I understand your reasoning, I’d have preferred you alerted the gate guards or anyone to help. We could have sorted out the Turvals’ intentions and lies safely. Please don’t do anything like that again. Had they somehow succeeded in their scheme, I would be without one of my Riders and that would have had an effect on operations here, despite the fact it was your rest day when you left the city.”

Abashed, she stared down at her feet, realizing how foolish she’d been. She’d worked so diligently to keep her merchant life separate from her Green Rider life, but could have upended everything with one poor decision had events not gone well with the Turvals or wraith. Zachary was absolutely correct that had the Turvals succeeded in their scheme, it would have caused a chain reaction of trouble for the Riders, forcing them to search for her, and left them shorthanded. Others would have had to pick up the slack.

She should have called out to the gate guards for help and have done with it, but that dark part of her wanted to go so she could punish the Turvals herself when the chance arose. Burning the marriage contract and wielding the priest’s staff had proven cathartic.

Still, she hated disappointing Zachary and her captain, and winced as she recalled a similar feeling as a child after ruining Cook’s prized copper pans by trying to pound them into knight’s armor for herself. She groaned inwardly at the irony of how she was supposed to be an actual knight of the realm, but was still making childish mistakes.

“At least,” Zachary said, “this thing with the Turvals should no longer be an issue.”

Karigan relaxed.

“However—”

And tensed again.

“I will direct Captain Connly to restrict Rider G’ladheon’s duties to within the bounds of the city, even on rest days, while this second wraith creature is abroad. We don’t know what Mornhavon wants with her, and it’s better we don’t find out.”

Karigan wanted to protest, but she saw Connly’s expression and kept her peace.

“I am afraid the news about Mornhavon from King Santanara will not be so easily addressed,” Zachary continued.

“The question is,” Counselor Javien said, “can it be trusted?”

“It is difficult to know the minds of Eletians, but they do seem to have an ability to peer into the future. Whether or not we can rely on the word of our unusual allies, it is a reminder that we must be ready. And if the Eletians speak truth, we must be ready sooner than later.”

THE HAUNTED PASTURE

Darys couldn’t help himself. He had to keep peeking out at the pasture to ensure he wasn’t imagining the magical horses whose silver-white coats shone with an otherworldly light beneath the moon. They munched grass like ordinary horses, and a couple of them raised their tails to poop, so they weren’t entirely enchantments cast by the Eletians, but he wasn’t quite convinced he wasn’t dreaming.

“Darys!”

Darys grimaced and hurried back into the stables where his Uncle Hep stood with a broom in his hand.

“Aye, sir?” he asked.

“I’m going into the city now to collect Condor.”

“His Rider all right?” Darys had been apprenticed as a groom to his uncle just long enough to learn that the king’s messengers did a lot more than carry around letters, which often led them into hazardous situations. It couldn’t be good news if Condor was separated from his Rider.

“Nothing to worry about,” Uncle Hep replied. “She came in on one of those Elt horses and left Condor at a stable down in the middle city. Someone has to fetch him.”

His response raised more questions than answers, but it was a relief to hear Rider G’ladheon was all right. Darys saw her around Rider stables often enough as she helped the Chief Rider see the others off on errands, and she liked to help with stall cleaning and feeding. She was friendly and pleasant, and seemed ordinary enough, but his uncle and the others made certain comments that indicated she had a knack for running into trouble. Maybe he’d ask Anna about it. He liked Anna. She called him “Dare” and always went out of her way to make him feel welcome.

He couldn’t help but wonder how Rider G’ladheon ended up riding one of the Elt horses and what it was like to mount up on one of those beauties. Perhaps he would ask her sometime.

He accepted the broom from his uncle and began sweeping. He watched out of the corner of his eye as his uncle tacked up Clover, his old gray mare, then led her out. He waited a while to make sure his uncle was well away before setting the broom aside and stepping outside to watch the Elt horses again.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark, but there the horses were, still pulling at grass or dozing with their heads low and tails softly swishing, all very horselike. How could such luminous creatures be so ordinary in behavior?

He stepped through the big doorway and over to the pasture gate. Maybe if he got a closer look? He knew he should just leave it alone, but he couldn’t resist. He opened the gate and slipped into the pasture. They were a bit of a distance away and did not appear to notice his presence, but as he waded through the dry autumn grasses, one or two angled an ear in his direction but otherwise ignored him.

What did their hides feel like? he wondered. Spun silk? Velvet? Or perhaps they were made of no more than moonlight and fairy dreams. Darys had not been one for horses. He was much more interested in tracking through the woods and hunting with his da, and honing his archery skills, though there wasn’t much call for hunting here on castle grounds. Horses, to his mind, were useful for farming and pulling carts, but he’d never gotten excited by bloodlines or riding, nor had he spent much time with them until now as an apprentice to his uncle. His parents had insisted he learn a trade in the city and thought that once he finished his apprenticeship he’d find a permanent position in the king’s service or with some big estate. If he’d his druthers, he’d be back home, stalking game and helping in the fields of their little homestead.

He realized now, working at Rider stables, that horses could be more interesting than he’d originally thought. The messenger horses had a lot of personality and sometimes he swore they’d talk to him if they could. It was all in their eyes, ears, and whickers, and sometimes the stomp of a hoof or whisk of the tail. The Elt horses were on a whole other order of interesting. They stood like gleaming statues in the night. He’d never seen creatures so beautiful.

Darys approached slowly and was nearly halfway across the pasture when the four lifted their heads as one, and flickered their ears as though listening to something he could not hear. He turned in the direction in which the horses pointed their ears and caught a wisp of a sweet sound, almost like the lilting flute of a winter wren, but more ephemeral. A thrill shivered through his body.

One of the horses snorted and he and his fellows stepped into an easy trot moving away from Darys. As they approached the far fenceline, they did not slow down. A warning was on his tongue when suddenly they picked up their pace into a canter and effortlessly glided over the fence. On the other side, they casually trotted onto the pathway that led to the castle. They were running away!

He panicked—prepared to run after them. If they escaped, everyone would blame him. But then he stilled. No, no. They weren’t running away. They were answering a summons, he was sure of it. That sound he’d heard, that sweet whistle, had been a call. He pursed his lips and blew in an attempt to mimic it, but he fell far short. No mere human, he thought, could make that sound. Their departure was a letdown, like a light extinguished, for the pasture darkened without their presence. He wondered if he’d see their like again.

He shook his head and strode through the pasture in the direction of the stables where he’d attend to his decidedly unmagical chores. When he reached the gate, however, he heard soft hoof falls behind him. He whirled thinking the Elt horses had returned, but there was nothing there. He scratched his head. All the messenger horses were in for the night, but might he have missed a horse or two? There was a small copse of trees that provided shade in the summer. Maybe one of them had hidden there.

He hesitated, recounting who was in their stall. The only one he could think of who was missing was Condor, and he was down in the city. There shouldn’t be any horses left out, but he decided it was best to be cautious and take a look just in case. He did not want his Uncle Hep thinking he’d shirked his duty, so he set off again across the pasture toward the copse.

“Horse! C’mon, horse,” he called. “Time to get in. C’mon, horse.”

He paused and neither heard nor saw a thing. He trudged on but halted when he heard a soft whuff behind him and felt a warm breath on the back of his neck. He turned with an admonishment on his lips for the horse who had not gone in to supper with the rest, but none was there.

“Hello?” His voice was absorbed into the silence of the dark.

No answer. He trembled. He’d been sure he sensed something out there, but couldn’t see it. An invisible horse, maybe, or a ghost? He wasn’t interested in finding out and wasted no time in setting off toward the gate.

If there really was a horse out there and it was playing tricks on him, it could go without supper for all he cared. But as he walked, he had the strange sensation he was not alone. He was almost afraid to look, but when he glanced over his shoulder he saw nothing.

He hastened his steps and sometimes thought he heard hooves plodding behind him, but every time he stopped to look, he saw nothing. A clammy, cold sweat dripped down his sides and he was practically running by the time he reached the gate. When he paused to unlatch it, something tugged on the work gloves he’d tucked over the back of his belt. He cried out and whirled.

And again, nothing was there.

He was through the gate in an instant and ran into Rider stables. He scrambled up the ladder into the hayloft. He hid himself beneath loose hay and shook until his uncle returned and climbed up to see what was the matter.

“What’re you doing up here, lad?”

“The pasture—it’s haunted.” Darys hadn’t wanted to say anything because no one would believe him, but it had just tumbled from his mouth anyway. At least it was to his uncle, and no one else was around to overhear except the horses.

At first Uncle Hep just stood there as if digesting his words. Darys braced himself for a tongue lashing accusing him of being a stupid boy afraid of his own shadow, but then his uncle’s posture eased and he nodded. “You’ve felt it, too, eh?” was Uncle Hep’s surprising response. “A, er, presence?”

“Like a horse,” Darys replied. “It followed me around and tried to snag my gloves.” He started shivering again.

Uncle Hep rubbed his chin. “Aye. I have heard hoof falls and have felt that presence more than once.”

“It’s a ghost horse,” Darys whispered.

“Well, I dunno.”

“What else could it be?”

Uncle Hep slowly lowered himself to sit on a hay bale and gave Darys a very direct look. “Remember what I said about working in Rider stables the first day you were here?”

Darys thought back to that early fall day, leaves alight with color in the hills, the lower city crawling with laborers to rebuild after the fire, and the grim looks of those who had to take account of the dead from the war with Second Empire. There had also been some optimism in the air with the enemy’s defeat and that Sacor City would come back better than ever. Still, he had not been pleased to be dragged from home to work for his uncle in the city. He’d been terribly homesick—still was.

He recalled Uncle Hep placing his big hands on his shoulders before the open door of the stables. Now, Darys, he’d said in a subdued voice, the king’s messenger corps is not like other military units. The Riders, they are not as regimented. Doesn’t mean they aren’t disciplined, but it’s a different kind of discipline, and I’m going to warn you that you might witness certain oddities. You are not to speak of such things to anyone but me or the other hands, or to the Riders themselves. Understand?

Darys, of course, hadn’t really understood, and he still did not, but he had nodded as if he had.

“Is this one of the oddities you meant that day?” he asked.

“Looks like,” Uncle Hep replied. “I don’t know what that is out there, but at least it seems friendly. Curious and friendly, and not mean or bad. You’ll notice the horses are not bothered by it. But let me know if it happens again, eh?”

Darys nodded. Hearing that his uncle thought the spirit, or whatever it was, was curious and friendly helped a lot.

“I will.”

“Good lad.” Uncle Hep clapped him on the shoulder and rose. “It was time we went home. Your auntie will be cross if we’re too late. Jamien will have the night watch.”

Darys stood, relieved he hadn’t had to stand night watch yet. Even if it was a friendly spirit roaming the pasture, he didn’t relish the thought of being alone all night in the stables.

WITNESS OF THE PAST

Karigan was beyond tired. As she wearily made her way back to the Rider wing, she hoped none of her fellow messengers were up and about. She had no wish to be confronted with questions and comments, an inevitability given her attire.

With slight limping steps on blistered feet, she entered the Rider wing. She paused to kick off her stiff city shoes and picked them up. The cold stone floor was numbing.

All appeared quiet. She hurried past closed doors, the hem of her skirts wisping along the floor. She hesitated at the open common room door, found the chamber dark and empty, and continued on in relief. However, when she turned the corner into the corridor where her own chamber lay, a single figure stood there half in the shadow cast by a lamp at low glow. Tegan.

Tegan’s eyes widened in surprise at Karigan’s sudden arrival and it took a moment for recognition to register, but when it did, her surprise turned to mischief. She placed her hands on her hips and said, “You appear to be rather lost, my lady.”

Karigan drew herself up, and affecting an imperious air, she replied, “A true lady is never lost. Merely inconvenienced.”

Tegan burst out laughing. “And I seem to recall a certain lady being mightily inconvenienced when she spent weeks bushwhacking through the woods this spring.”

Karigan sniffed. “Insolent knave! Scoundrel! To impugn my good lady-ness.” Alas, it was true. The bushwhacking had been extremely inconvenient.

Tegan sputtered and laughed again. She had probably been the last person Karigan wanted to run into, considering their tiff over the harvest ball and gowns, but she was relieved to find her friend in good spirits and joined in with the laughter.

“Seriously,” Tegan said, “what in the world have you been up to?”

“Long story,” Karigan replied. She hopped from one frozen foot to the other.

“It always is with you,” Tegan said with a chuckle. Where had Karigan heard that before? “But let’s have a better look at that gorgeous gown you’re wearing.”

“I need off this cold floor,” Karigan said, and she led the way into her chamber. Inside she leaned her bonewood staff against the wall and stepped into a pair of slippers. Tegan helped to light lamps while Karigan stoked the fire in the hearth.

“The tailoring on that gown is amazing,” Tegan said. “I had no idea you knew Madam Twoford.”

Of course Tegan would recognize the maker. She had a keen eye for such things and knew many of the seamstresses in the city.

“My clan has supplied her for years,” Karigan replied. Unfortunately, due to her clan’s present state, she hadn’t been able to conjure up the fabrics the madam currently desired.

Tegan pulled out the chair at Karigan’s desk and sat. “I’m an idiot.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Acting as if I know all the finest dressmakers in the city when of course your clan has been doing business with them all along.”

“That is my father and others of the clan doing business with them. I didn’t really know any until recently. I’ve never had reason to have a special gown made since I’ve become a Rider.”

“But why didn’t you tell me you had a gown suitable for the harvest ball?” Tegan asked. “I wouldn’t have pestered you.”

Karigan hesitated before answering. She had worked hard to keep her clan work separate from her role as a Green Rider, and particularly did not need anyone, not even her friends, knowing how desperate the situation was. Reputation was everything among the merchant class, and Tegan’s clan was in the realm of dyers, which meant it was well acquainted with textile merchants like Clan G’ladheon. She hadn’t wanted to put her friend into a position of keeping such a secret, or otherwise take a chance it would be leaked.

“The gown was not made for the ball, but merchant business with the guild.”

“It could certainly serve both purposes,” Tegan said.

Karigan gave a curt shake of her head, indicating she was not interested in revisiting the issue. At that moment, Ghost Kitty entered her room, crossed over to where she stood, and sniffed her skirts before flopping in front of the fire.

Ghost Kitty was followed by Mara Brennyn, who gave Karigan a thorough looking over. “Abducted by fishermen?” she demanded.

“What?” Tegan said.

“Hello to you, too,” Karigan replied. “I allowed them to take me. More or less. I didn’t want to ruin my gown.” There was some truth to that.

“Hah! Connly told me everything,” Mara said.

“Abducted by fishermen?” Tegan demanded. “What did I miss?”

Before long, Karigan found herself repeating the entire story to Tegan.

“Those Turvals don’t sound like the sharpest bunch,” Tegan remarked. “Marriage into that family would have been a considerable reversal of fortune.”

“From Eletian nobility to fishwife,” Mara said.

“There is nothing wrong with being a fishwife,” Karigan said with a sniff, “if that is your way of life and what you want. I am a Green Rider.”

Her friends nodded in approval.

“But this wraith.” Tegan shuddered. “I thought we were done with them.”

“Me, too,” Mara said in a quiet voice. Her face, and much of her body, bore the burn scars of her encounter with one.

They fell into silence and shadow seemed to dim the fire and light.

Karigan shook herself. “Do you mind helping me out of this gown? It’s time to become a Green Rider again. And go to bed. I’m exhausted.”

“I should rather think so,” Mara said, “after the night you’ve had.”

The two helped her with all the stays and layers and carefully stuffed the gown into her wardrobe. She placed all her clan jewelry into a desk drawer for lack of a better place to keep it.

When finally she was left alone in bed, she thought she would be tired enough to fall asleep, but all she could see when she closed her eyes was the soulless face of the wraith.

• • •

The wraith’s face haunted her dreams throughout the night, so she started her day groggy and feeling as though she walked in shadows. A visit with Condor alleviated the darkness somewhat, but she found the behavior of Hep’s nephew peculiar. He kept peering out the stable doors into the pasture as if he expected an attack.

“Something wrong, Darys?” she asked.

He jumped, then reddened. “Uh, no, Rider,” he replied, and hastened to return to cleaning stalls.

She gazed out into the pasture herself, saw nothing unusual, just a bunch of horses grazing. Scary! She chuckled to herself and fed Condor a muffin she had snagged from the dining hall.

She had not been asked to attend the throne room when the Eletians returned, so she went about her duties simultaneously sleepy and anxious about the previous night’s events and what the Eletians might be discussing with Zachary.

She found the dining hall for the midday meal crowded. She slipped onto a bench across from a guardsman who was scribbling in what appeared to be a journal or logbook as he absently sipped a cup of tea, the remains of his meal pushed aside. Though he looked familiar, she didn’t interrupt him. She had enough to think about without starting small talk. Primary in her mind were the Eletians and wraiths.

The Eletians, she thought as she sipped stew from her spoon, had better not leave without seeing her first as they had done once before. She and Enver had unfinished business, and then there was everything else to do with her recent adoption into the House of Santanara. She was breaking off a piece of crusty bread when she noticed the guardsman’s regard.

“Rider G’ladheon, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied warily. Was he going to bring up the Spirit of Light thing?

“Been on gate duty when you’ve come through now and then. Middle gate the night of the fire.”

“Seften, right?” she said, suddenly remembering. She had made him memorize a message to carry up to the castle that night.

“You remember my name.” He seemed both surprised and pleased.

“Took a moment,” she replied. “There are an awful lot of you, and you are rotated often.”

“Yes, it’s true. Tonight I have rooftop duty. Don’t get that one very much. It’s usually reserved for more senior guards.”

The roof of the castle, he meant. She’d been up there a time or two herself. With all its walks, walls, towers, and hoardings, it was a lot of territory to cover, but the view of the city was grand.

“I’m a little surprised,” she said carefully, “you aren’t working as an officer’s aide.” She indicated his journal. While it wasn’t unheard of for a lowly guardsman private to be literate, it wasn’t typical either.

“Oh, I was offered such when I signed on, but I wanted to be where the action was, you know, marching through the wilderness with the Mountain Unit.”

“But,” she said, “you ended up as a guardsman.”

“Yes, and probably better for it.” He laughed. “Dry, warm barracks and hot meals every night, and all. I’ll admit being able to read can put fancies in your head. I fancied myself Gilan Wylloland.”

Karigan grinned at the mention of the central character from her favorite book, The Journeys of Gilan Wylloland. She’d had similar fancies herself, only to learn that adventures weren’t all the stories said they were.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” she said, “where did you learn to read?”

“My mum was a tutor for Lord Baily’s children in Oldbury. She brought me with her to lessons, so I learned. I was offered positions in Lord Baily’s house when I came of age, but adventure called.”

“Do you regret your decision to join the guard?” She’d been called mad for leaving the merchant life to become a Green Rider. Not like she’d had a choice . . .

“Not one bit,” he replied. “It’s been interesting. Maybe too interesting at times.”

“I understand.”

They both laughed, and he said, “I have no doubt. You Riders get into the worst sorts of trouble. As for me, it’s worth it. I meet all kinds of folk from all over when I’m working one of the gates, and I get to help to protect the realm from its enemies. I’m real proud of our king and queen, and of our people and how we stood against Second Empire.”

This Karigan understood, as well.

Seften then leaned forward conspiratorially. In a soft voice Karigan heard despite the clamor of the dining hall, he said, “Besides, it’s all good fodder for a book.”

“A book?”

“Like Gilan Wylloland.”

“You’re writing a novel?”

He laughed. “I’d like to. My duties keep me busy, but I collect my ideas here.” He tapped the cover of his journal.

There was nothing special about the journal. It was bound with plain leather, scarred and scratched by use, and stained by a blotch of ink or two. However, a chill air, like a breath from the depths of the heavens or time drafted against the back of her neck and raised the hairs on her arms. A vision of another journal superimposed itself over the one sitting on the table. The journal of the vision was in much rougher condition, half-charred and badly stained, its pages stiffened as though from water damage. It was held in the hands of the man she had known as the professor in the future.

Unbidden words poured from her lips: “Without witnesses, there is no story of the past. Keep writing for the sake of the future.”

She shivered violently, caught for a moment in a dark, cold place.

“Rider?”

Drawn back into the world of light and the usual noise of the dining hall, she shook her head. Another guardsman dropped a mug and the resounding crash made her jump. There were hoots and applause from his fellows.

“Rider?” Seften said again. “You all right?”

“Fine.” She’d been caught in a memory of the future, almost as if she’d been momentarily swept there, but it swiftly evaporated. She was thankful for it even if it had not lasted. However, some essence of the professor—Professor Josston—lingered. His kindness, and an impression of his fondness for . . . old buttons?

She looked up when she realized Seften was asking her a question. “Sorry?”

“I was just asking if you minded if I recorded your words,” he replied. “They seem quite wise.”

“My words?” She had already forgotten them.

“How without witnesses there are no stories of the past.”

“Oh. Go ahead.” She had said that? She was feeling a bit muddled, and even more so when she felt a thread that was part of the great tapestry of the universe was not snapped but spun into a new whole.

SPIRITS

Karigan’s duties in the afternoon took her to the records room with an armload of reports from Connly. While some might argue she was too senior a Rider for so simple a task, she did not mind. It gave her something else to think about other than Eletians and wraiths, with the added benefit of seeing her friend Dakrias Brown, the castle’s chief administrator.

Her footsteps echoed in the dim, ancient corridors. Like the Rider wing, the records room lay in a more ancient part of the castle. Lamplight never seemed to adequately illuminate the way, and the rough stonework of the walls created odd textures and shadows.

Few visited this region of the castle, which, Karigan knew, was why Dakrias decided to maintain his office here rather than occupy the more opulent space in the administrative wing due his position. When she entered the records room, the walls fell away and the ceiling vanished into a deep well of darkness the lamplight could not reach. A dome of stained glass was up there, but it had been built over during the reign of King Agates Sealender and was only seen when lit from behind. Sunlight had not touched it in over two hundred years.

The records room was arranged much like a library with rows of tall shelving and reading tables. It contained everything from maps, to census and tax records, and, of course, Green Rider reports, though those mostly stemmed from current times. Little Rider history had survived the Ages.

A few clerks worked among the stacks, arms loaded with ledgers, parchment, and scrolls. Dakrias stood up from his desk when he noticed her and slid his specs onto the bridge of his nose.

“Ah, Rider,” he said. He gave a quick glance into the darkness overhead before striding over to her. She glanced up, too, but saw nothing.

“Hello,” she said. “I have these reports from Captain Connly for you.”

“Ah.” Dakrias accepted them into his arms. “I am pleased the captain is as thorough as your colonel when it comes to preserving Rider records.” More softly he asked, “Any news on the colonel?”

Karigan shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Nothing that I’ve heard about in any case.”

“I am sorry to hear that. Your colonel is a very fine person and her absence is personally distressing.”

“Thank you. It is the same for her Riders.”

“I do not doubt it. Fortunately she left you all in good hands.”

It was true, Karigan thought, but she missed the colonel and fervently wished for her return.

Dakrias’ gaze darted upward into the dark a number of times as they spoke. She could not see what distracted him when she followed his gaze.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Eh?”

She pointed up.

“No. Well, maybe.” He glanced about to see if anyone was watching, then sidled closer to her and whispered, “They scatter when you come here.”

“They?” The clerks still worked among the stacks, not paying a whit of attention to their conversation, and they certainly had not scattered. One climbed a ladder to an upper shelf, a large book tucked beneath his arm.

“The spirits,” Dakrias whispered.

“Ah.”

The records room was quite haunted, and the ghosts caused Dakrias a good deal of grief. Like mischievous cats, they had a penchant for knocking objects off the shelves.

“They scatter when I come here?” Now that he mentioned it, she realized she’d not sensed any presences here or in the Rider wing, or anywhere else in the castle for that matter, for quite some time.

Dakrias nodded emphatically.

Why did they leave when she arrived? She’d been absent so much of the last year she hadn’t noticed. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen ghosts at all. In fact, the spirit of the late Rider Beryl Spencer had appeared to her after the Battle of the Sleeping Waelds and led her to a chamber in the royal tombs that contained the “dragonfly device,” an ancient shield thought to have repelled the sea kings, seafaring marauders from deep in the past, and their “great weapon,” from Sacoridia’s shores. A great weapon that may have been an actual dragon, or dragons.

Still, it was true, now that Dakrias had pointed it out, that the regular ghosts of the castle had not been conspicuous. To her at any rate.

“It seems a little rude, their vanishing like that,” said the man who used to nearly faint in fright at the presence of ghosts and had practically been driven mad by their mischief. “Or, did you do something to offend them?”

“What?” She laughed until she realized he was serious. “I don’t think so.”

She considered it as she left the records room. She’d an ability with ghosts that she may have inherited from the maternal line of her family if the rumors were to be believed. Her Rider ability also had something to do with it, allowing her to transcend the veil separating the living world from death. Then there was Westrion, god of death, who used her as his avatar and, as a result, gave her some ability to control spirits, save those who had already ascended to the heavens or descended to the hells. Had she, at some point, ordered the castle spirits to stay away from her? She shrugged intending to dismiss the problem of scattering ghosts, but it was like an itch she couldn’t leave alone. She needed to know if she had done something to cause them to avoid her, and if she’d be able to summon them back.

She turned around and retraced her steps toward the records room, but halted well short of it. Then she peered up and down the corridor to ensure no one would observe her.

She cleared her throat. “Are you there, spirits?”

Nothing. She waited. Tried again.

“It’s all right, you can come out.”

Silence, except for the footsteps of a clerk approaching with an armload of scrolls for the records room. She nodded to him, her cheeks warming. Had he heard her talking seemingly to herself?

“You aren’t trying very hard,” he told her. Cold air streamed by her at his passing.

“What?” she said in surprise.

“You ordered them away from you and they obeyed. You need to command them.”

How would he know? But as he approached the entrance to the records room, he vanished. Damnation. No wonder he knew. He was one of them. And he had come when she requested it. He was right, however, that if she were to command them, she needed to do so with authority.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and from some reservoir as dark and vast as the heavens, she said in a voice laden with compulsion that was not entirely her own, “Attend me.”

The force of releasing the command caused her to stumble backward. Immediately the corridor cooled, swelled with moans and susurrations. Unintelligible whispers filled her ears. Mist suffused the space around her, ebbed and flowed with filmy figures. She could pick out individuals attired in the fashion of other eras, some in fine dress or wearing the garb of laborers, others clad in armor. Some bore grotesque wounds that must have been the cause of their death. One or two were missing heads. Largely, however, they merged into an indistinct mass. Many seemed to want her attention and closed in, babbling and murmuring. They touched her with icy fingers that raised goosebumps on her flesh.

She caught snatches of their words: Where is my baby? To yonder hills go I; Where am I? The worst was the sobbing and wailing of despair.

She tried waving them away as though they were smoke. It simply distorted any recognizable features. She resisted the urge to bolt, for surely they would follow her. There were so many, she must have called not just the records room ghosts, but all the ghosts of the castle. Maybe some from beyond.

When she heard the screams and yells of living voices, she sprinted back to the records room and entered into a squall of papers fluttering through the air. Objects crashed to the floor. Rambunctious spirits flitted among the stacks. The chamber was thick with them.

“Rider! Look out!”

She ducked just in time as a scroll hurtled at her head, unspooling its precious parchment in a tail behind it.

“Dakrias?” she called. She spotted him tucked beneath his desk. His clerks likewise hid under tables, expressions of bewilderment and terror on their faces.

“We’re all right,” Dakrias told her. “They’ve gone berserk. Get under a table—it’s safer.”

That was true, but she paused. It was her fault the spirits were here—she had called them. She could send them away again. Unfortunately, they’d leave behind a terrible mess. Just as she wondered if it was possible to command spirits to tidy the records room, a knot of them approached. They strode-floated, a mass of black around a malevolent figure in its center. When the mass reached her, the black separated into eight figures with swords drawn, their forms shifting like smoke so that they were blurred, but she knew them to be Weapons.

The malevolent figure at their center wore a crown. His form swam and shifted as well, but he held his shape better than the ghost Weapons. The activity of the other spirits waned as though they watched and waited.

Suddenly the king was beside her. Traitor Greenies, he hissed into her ear. His eyes were blank orbs. They all must hang. Drawn and quartered.

She did not need Westrion’s influence to identify King Agates Sealender, for she had seen his gold crown resting upon his corpse, both the night he’d died—in the far distant past—and in the tombs. He had hated his Green Riders. It was he who had sealed off the stained glass dome above the records room from the sun, for it had featured the heroics of Lil Ambrioth and her Green Riders during the Long War. He accused his own Riders of betraying him, especially Gwyer Warhein, their captain, whose ability, just like Colonel Mapstone’s, had been to discern truth and falsehoods. He’d been a thorn in the old king’s side, for Agates had fed his populace only lies to his own advantage. He refused to speak truth or allow his subjects to know the truth. He was a terrible king and died without naming an heir, knowing it would plunge the realm into a bloody civil war. That had been his legacy.

Fortunately, it had given rise to Clan Hillander, Zachary’s line.

Before she could react, the Weapon ghosts were upon her, hacking into her with their swords. She felt a cold chill pass through her with each stroke. She pivoted to reveal the emblem of the Black Shields upon her shoulder. The ghosts paused, merged, and drifted back.

What is this? Agates demanded, his face in hers. All Greenies must die. Warhein must suffer for his betrayal.

The knowledge and power that was hers as Westrion’s avatar flowed through her again. “Gwyer Warhein is at peace.” A cold smile formed on her lips. “You, Agates Sealender, will not be. You are overdue for last judgment.”

I am king. The spirit now floated above her. I am the only judge. I am the law. No one may dare say otherwise.

“You are dead,” she replied, “and a place in the hells has long awaited you.”

You’ve no power over me. You are a cursed Green Rider. I do not obey. I rule here.

“You are no god.”

I am! I am King Agates! I rule all.

“Descend.” She exhaled the frost of the heavens with her words.

You cannot make me! Agates cried. I am king—all bow down to me.

“Descend.” The command crackled in the air.

The spirit screamed as it sank through the floor and into the hells. When his voice was snuffed out, the Weapons came before her and went to their knees.

“You served your king as was your duty,” she said, “yet your duty was not to one man, but to the realm and its people. As creatures of free will, you might have averted much evil, but you were turned by sophistry and greed. You are betrayers of your oath and humanity. You will join Saverill in the hells.” Saverill was the first known Weapon to commit treason.

The spirits bowed their heads and did not protest or fight when Westrion used her to cast them into the hells.

To the rest of the spirits, she commanded, “Be in peace among the lights of the heavens. Should you choose to remain, you will cease your destructive behaviors.”

As the waning flurry of papers spiraled around her, the spectral mist cleared as most spirits departed. She stumbled into one of the tables, overcome by weariness as Westrion’s presence left her. She pulled out a chair and sat hard.

“Er,” Dakrias said from beneath his desk, “is it safe to come out now?”

She was about to answer when she noticed an entity hovering just above the floor near the stacks. Gray it was, a misty vapor adrift on currents of air. She sensed its intelligence and realized it was no ordinary spirit.

SHATTERED

The gray entity hung cloudlike in the air.

“Rider?” Dakrias queried from beneath his desk.

“Stay put,” Karigan told him without averting her gaze. She could make out no face, no shape to suggest what it was. It did not speak, did not approach, nor did it move away. It did not exude the aura of dread and living decay of a wraith, yet a cold sweat dampened her brow and sides for it unsettled her in a way ordinary spirits did not.

“What are you?” she asked.

She thought it emitted a breathy laugh, but it could have easily been the rustle of the last of the dislodged papers settling onto the floor.

“Or should I ask who?” she murmured.

A tendril of mist unfurled from its side like an arm and pointed down at her. “We must finish the game,” it whispered.

“What game?” she demanded.

It began to rise.

“Wait!” she cried. “Attend me.”

“You’ve no power over me, avatar,” it said. “You are but a weak mortal shell for your god. A slave to his whims.”

“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”

The gray entity’s form undulated with a chuckle. “Your move, Green Rider.”

It shot upward into the dark of the dome and smashed through it.

Glittering daggers of glass rained down. Karigan threw herself under the table just in time.

“Stay under cover!” she shouted to the others.

Glass thunked on the tabletops like hail, and chimed, clinked, and tinkled as it danced and skipped on flagstone like mad translucent sleet shimmering with color.

• • •

Karigan gazed at the damage to the dome. Dakrias’ assistants had gone above with lanterns to place behind the stained glass. Each panel depicted the First Rider, Lil Ambrioth, heroic in battle or receiving laud for her heroism. Only one of the panels had taken damage, that of Lil receiving an Eletian-made banner of the winged horse from King Santanara while Green Riders and Eletians looked on.

Karigan wanted to weep at the loss. It was an irreplaceable masterpiece that was a rare homage to a Green Rider who had been a great hero of the realm.

“At least we’ve the actual banner,” Mara said as if to assuage her own sorrow.

Karigan had sent for available Riders to help with the cleanup, enduring, in the meantime, glances cast her way by Dakrias and his clerks while she waited. They had witnessed her commanding ghosts, but had they discerned Westrion manifesting in her or understood the gray entity referring to her as the “mortal shell” of her god? At a guess, the situation had been so frightful and chaotic they had not, that at the time they were just hoping to survive the ordeal intact. Also, Westrion did not casually reveal his presence to others. The clerks had probably just seen a mad Rider yelling at the air.

Glass crunched underfoot, making Karigan wince. The Riders swept up fragments and set larger shards aside with reverence to be preserved. Others assisted the clerks with retrieving documents, maps, ledgers, and books the spirits had flung. Rider Megan Notman, much to the astonishment of the clerks, used her special ability to float up to the dome to ensure no loose pieces of glass would fall and injure someone. Mara made the clerks swear an oath not to speak of it, but in truth, after the Battle of the Sleeping Waelds, knowledge of the Riders’ abilities had begun to leak out despite centuries of guarding their secret.

After Megan’s performance, Karigan was relieved to find she wasn’t the only recipient of looks from the clerks.

“Riders!” thundered a familiar voice.

Karigan and Mara whirled to find their king striding into the records room, flanked by his Weapons, Fastion and Donal. Dismay rippled across Fastion’s usually stoic expression as he took in the destruction.

Zachary, too, looked shocked. “News of the incident reached me so I came to see it for myself. It is much worse than I imagined. What happened? Was anyone hurt? The reports are . . . chaotic.”

“Rider G’ladheon was present when the dome broke,” Mara said, “so I will defer to her to explain.”

Zachary’s gaze fell on Karigan. She could not read his expression. “Rider?”

She cleared her throat. “Ghosts, Your Majesty. They got, er, destructive, but thankfully, no one was hurt.”

Her ability to cross thresholds and communicate with the dead was known to him and the Riders. However, her connection to Westrion, as far as she was aware, had been explicitly revealed only to Zachary. During the Battle of the Lone Forest, he’d been able to see her as the avatar when no one else could. Her role as avatar was not a burden she could share, not even with her friends. They would never regard her the same again knowing that through her the divine walked among them. They would never be the same knowing gods were not abstract or ineffable notions who dwelled among the stars. Their reality could be enough to shatter some minds.

The adventures she had endured as a Green Rider, the oddities that surrounded her, such as the fact she’d traveled through time, already made them look askance at her, and some kept their distance. It made her feel other, and lonely at times, and she yearned for ordinariness.

“I wish to speak with Rider G’ladheon privately,” Zachary told Mara.

Mara bowed and left to supervise the cleanup. Zachary led Karigan aside where they could speak without listeners. The Weapons remained at a watchful distance.

“What really happened here?” he asked.

“It is true, the ghosts did go berserk.”

“I can see that readily enough, but what is the whole story?”

She looked down at her feet. “I, uh, summoned them.” A quick glance revealed a knowing look in his eyes.

“And what prompted you to summon them?”

After she explained, he said, “You were trying to figure out what had become of the ghosts, why they were avoiding you.”

She nodded vigorously. “I don’t remember commanding them to go away, but I guess I did at some point. I fear it is all my fault the dome is broken.” She brushed a tear away.

“Perhaps by summoning the ghosts the scene for destruction was set, but it was through the actions of this gray entity that the panel was shattered.” His gaze grew distant as he continued. “A power can be a useful thing, whatever it is, but perhaps wielding it only when necessary is the surer course.”

She hung her head. Her recent missteps with the Turvals, and now this, were making her seem no better than the greenest of Greenies. “I am so sorry. I don’t even know where to begin.”

He reached to her, lifted her chin. “I know you are, dearheart, but I don’t blame you.”

She caught her breath at his touch and the endearment. The moment lingered, tantalizing, feverish, and impossible, before his hand fell back to his side. Only then could she breathe again.

“The ghosts here have been known to be destructive in the past,” he continued. “Administrator Brown has been stalwart in putting up with them. I was going to suggest to him that we move the records to another space, but you say you banished the ghosts?”

“Most of them, I believe, including King Agates.”

“To think that old manipulator was still haunting these corridors.” He shook his head. “Better his spirit is removed to where it belongs. This entity that broke the glass, however, appears to be a different matter.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It was not banished—it came and went under its own power. Westrion did not intervene.”

“Through the dome,” he murmured, gazing upward at the destruction. “We’ll find a way to repair it, but I cannot help but note the coincidence that the panel containing the scene with the Eletians presenting the First Rider their banner was the one that was broken when Eletians have so recently arrived here as our allies.”

She hadn’t thought of that.

“Speaking of which,” he said, “the Eletians will be staying near the city for a time. Estora has invited them to the harvest ball, and I think they wish to see more of you.”

Good, Karigan thought, because she had questions. Not that the Eletians would directly answer any of them.

“You should also know,” he said, “my agents have returned from Varos and they saw your colonel.”

Her heart thudded. “What—”

He stilled her with a gesture. “At the time of their visit, King Farrad Vir consented for them to meet with her to ensure her well-being. They say she was in good health. Alas, negotiations for her release failed.”

Another blow.

“Do not despair. It was not an unexpected outcome, and all may be to our advantage. Your father should be arriving in Varos soon if he hasn’t already. He was quite prepared, I understand, to bring her back, regardless the obstacles.”

So long as he doesn’t get himself killed, she thought. She wondered about Zachary’s statement, however, that the failure of his negotiators “may be to our advantage.” What in the hells did that mean?

“I’ve informed Captain Connly of this news,” he said, “and he will in turn inform all Riders. In the meantime, do please keep it to yourself.”

“I will.”

“I know.” He paused before adding, “I do not like the sound of the entity. Be careful.”

His eyes were so soft, so earnest, her heart quickened, and then like that, he swept away to talk to Dakrias and Mara. She stood there breathless for a moment, overcome with a mixture of emotions—her sorrow over the broken panel, waning hope for the return of Colonel Mapstone, then hope restored for her possible return, and the heat of love and desire.

She took a deep breath before she returned to work picking up scattered debris, part of her attention never leaving Zachary as he spoke quietly with Dakrias. When finally he moved to leave, they locked gazes and he gave her a smile. And then he was gone.

It distracted her enough that she sliced her finger on a sliver of glass that had impaled a map to one of the reading tables.

“Damnation.”

Blood pattered onto parchment. She wrapped her finger in a handkerchief and used a corner of it to dab the blood off the map. It depicted, she discovered, the landmass that was Varos and its neighbor, Kir-kranya. The glass had stuck right into the capital’s port.

MESSENGER

Where was she?

Stevic G’ladheon craned his neck to see over the heads of the embassy from Kir-kranya that stood ahead of him and his crew in the throne room of King Farrad Vir. He looked this way and that, but could not see her, the one for whom he had crossed oceans. The one he loved.

Where are you, Laren? he wondered.

This being Varos, no women would be allowed in the halls of power, but she’d been abducted to be the king’s “truth-teller” and he assumed that meant that she’d be present for audiences. After all, wasn’t the point of the king’s abduction of her to flaunt his possession of a rare, magical truth-teller? In addition, of course, to having one who could discern the truths and falsehoods of all those who came before him.

There was much discussion between the representatives of Kir-kranya and the king, and it sounded contentious. Stevic knew little of the Varosian language, and it was spoken so rapidly that he had no idea of what was being discussed. Kir-kranya, an inland mountain territory that bordered Varos, was even more of a mystery to outsiders than Varos, and he was uninformed as to the nature of the relationship between the two realms, though Master Hunt had mentioned something about border disputes. Whatever their differences, there were plenty of Kir-kranyans working in the streets of the capital city of Varos, though many were indentured servants and slaves. Kir-kranyan porters had helped carry Stevic’s goods into the palace.

“I don’t see her,” Melry whispered.

“Shhh . . .” Stevic warned.

Laren’s daughter, Melry, disguised now as a boy and a sailor, rose on tiptoes, searching over the shoulders of the Kir-kranyans for her mother.

There was a pause in the argument and the king made a query directed not at the Kir-kranyans, but toward a lattice-work screen just behind and to the side of his gilded throne chair.

“Yi,” came a quiet reply. A woman’s voice.

Stevic’s heart thudded hard in his chest. Laren. It had to be. He clamped his hand on Melry’s shoulder when she started, sure she would cry out or leap across the room to reach her mother. She stayed put and kept silent, but he could feel her quiver beneath his hand.

The rest of the room was in an uproar. Whatever yi had affirmed, for it was the Varosian word for yes, it enraged the Varosians. The king’s guards lowered their polearms and marched the Kir-kranyans out of the throne room. The atmosphere immediately lightened, and everyone seemed to give a collective sigh of relief.

“We are next,” Stevic murmured.

“Aye,” his cargo master, Sevano, said.

Sunlight filtered through large openings framed by ornate, geometric screens that could be closed to provide shade or left open to allow cross breezes and a view of pleasant gardens filled with the trills and songs of birds, and the tinkle of a fountain. The gentle breeze carried in the scents of jasmine and the blossoms of a sweet fruit called orrodei. The climate was warm year-round, and even now was steamy. Slaves wielded huge fans to cool the king and other important personages who lounged on pillows and carpets to observe the day’s audience. Some sucked on water pipes or partook of wine and dates.

An official bearing a staff spoke to them in Varosian.

“You may proceed before the king,” said their translator, Sil Vel Orr.

Stevic nodded, and he strode forward with Melry, Sevano, and his crew members under the curious gazes of the Varosians. He and Master Hunt had instructed the crew in the manners of the Varosian court. When they arrived at the throne, they went to their knees and bowed their heads. Stevic fought with himself not to gaze at the screen that hid Laren.

“Signa,” the official said.

“You may speak,” Sil told Stevic.

“Great and honorable king,” he said, and he pressed his palms together and bowed again. “It has been many years since last I was in your inestimable presence. I am Stevic G’ladheon, chief of Clan G’ladheon, merchant.”

Sil translated.

“I remember you, G’ladheon,” the king said in the common tongue. It came out more like Glah-ee-on with his accent. His command of the common tongue was, as Stevic recalled, passable. Being the king of a closed realm did not make him stupid. Far from it. He was versed in several languages, and educated in history, culture, and mathematics. This did not mean he chose to allow education for the average Varosian, and especially not the women. He took the traditional path of his predecessors, maintaining an ignorant populace, which was easier to control.

“I am honored that the great King Farrad Vir recalls me,” Stevic replied.

“My treasury was poorer for our meeting.” The king laughed, and his courtiers, following his lead, laughed, as well. “You bring us goods to make my treasury poor again?”

“I do happen to have brought a number of items that I think will be of interest to you.”

“Ah, good. Our meeting with the Kir-kranyans was most displeasing, and this will amend what has become a distressing day.”

A padded bench was brought for Stevic to sit on, as well a light fruit wine, delightfully cool. He directed his crew to present bolts of fabric for the king’s inspection—feathery silks in an array of colors, damasks of varying and beautiful patterns, soft cotton from the Under Kingdoms, and shimmering satins. He had just about emptied his warehouses in his effort to release Laren from the Varosians. He kept a close eye on Melry, who repeatedly glanced at the screen.

“Is this all you’ve brought?” the king asked.

“Indeed not, Your Majesty,” Stevic replied. “The hold of my ship is filled with an array of fine items from many lands. Perfumes and wine from Rhovanny, carpets and other fine weavings from Durnesia, tobacco from the Under Kingdoms, spices and sugar from the Cloud Islands, and more textiles and furs from my own homeland.”

“Good. You will bring me all these things tomorrow. Now, our list.”

The king’s secretary provided Stevic with a list of items the king wished to purchase. Sil translated, and Stevic made a show of consulting with Sevano on the value of the goods. As planned, they presented an extravagant figure well beyond their true worth.

The king chuckled. “Merchants, it is always a game, yes? This negotiation.” His counteroffer was reasonable, but Stevic came back with a still unreasonably high price.

“We have traveled far,” he explained, “and my goods have come from distant realms, from across the sea, down long rivers, and over land. I must take into consideration the expense this incurs.”

He counted on the fact that Varos was isolated enough that the king and his men would be uncertain as to the market value of items in the wider world. It turned out they were, and as Stevic hoped, the king decided to consult his truth-teller.

“Does this merchant,” he asked, “tell the truth as to the worth of his goods?”

“Yi,” came her answer, sure and clear. It really was Laren! He had to force himself to remain calm. Beside him, Melry struggled with herself not to charge across the space to tear the screen down.

Laren’s affirmative answer surprised him, however, because he’d spoken a lie. Her answer should have been neh, or no. Melry, who had witnessed the abduction of her mother, said the Varosians had placed a centipede in Laren’s ear. An ekedian centipede, Master Hunt had explained, which sensed etheric impulses. If a magic user used their ability improperly, in this case Laren lying about her readings of true and false, the centipede was supposed to cause crippling pain. Yet, Laren did not cry out or exhibit any other signs of distress. Had she become inured to the pain, or had she somehow mastered the centipede? She could not have removed it for doing so would have killed her. There was always the unlikely possibility the number he’d given the king was in fact accurate in this part of the world prompting the positive answer, but he knew better.

“My truth-teller,” the king said, “says you offer a reasonable price. Therefore, we will purchase the goods as stated.”

“Truth-teller?” Stevic asked. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Yes, one of my most prized possessions. It was found for me in your own land of Sacoridia, and it has helped me discern many untruths, especially from those lying dogs, the Kir-kranyans.”

“How remarkable,” Stevic replied. “The king is a fortunate man.”

“I am,” the king agreed.

When the deal was agreed to, Stevic and his companions were guided from the throne room by the secretary, who handed over a heavy purse full of coins. With a curt bow, the secretary returned to the throne room.

A guard led them through the grand colonnade, bright with sunlight pouring on white marble. Melry strode beside him, quivering with rage.

“Stay quiet until we are back on board the ship,” he warned her.

It was to her credit she held her peace all the way through the palace, on the carriage ride through the busy streets to the harbor, and then even as they rowed out to the ship.

Messenger stood tall and majestic among the tubby, rustic fishing boats and small coastal barqs of Varos. Unlike the kettle-bottomed merchants with which he was most acquainted, she’d sleek, sharp lines, and more canvas than sense. The sails were, of course, furled while at anchor, which truly revealed how lofty the masts and yards were, how much taller than on any ship he’d ever known. They required an intricate network of rigging. A sword-hulled clipper, Saber Class, the newest design from the royal shipyard, she was an attack vessel made for speed, capable of carrying only limited cargo. However, they’d modified quarters meant for naval fighting crews and marines and stuffed them with goods. She would fly even more swiftly when the cargo was unloaded.

Stevic had wondered at the symbolism of King Zachary giving him a ship called Messenger for the mission to rescue a messenger, the colonel of the Green Riders, and he’d been bemused by the figurehead. She was a figure in green and, even without the winged horse anywhere to be seen, clearly a Green Rider, poised to stride out over the waves while reaching into her shoulder satchel for a message. Her brown hair flowed out behind her as though wind blown, and she gazed purposely across the water. The carving was magnificent and lifelike, and oddly resembled his daughter, Karigan, though it wore no eyepatch. Coincidence, surely.

King Zachary may have intended symbolism, but might it not prove an affront to the Varosians? Such depictions of women were not allowed in the realm, but so far no one had insisted they cover the figurehead.

Messenger’s companion ships, Stargazer and Sojourner, had undertaken the journey with them, but the king had been adamant Stevic helm Messenger.

Presently, Stargazer was anchored behind a cluster of uninhabited islands out to sea, and Sojourner had been given permission by the authorities in the port to do some trading along the near coast. He suspected there would be as much intelligence collecting as trading. Should Stevic and his crew need to make a hasty withdrawal, both ships were positioned to run interference.

The G’ladheon colors of blue and purple snapped in the breeze from the mast, and though the ship was flagged for Sacoridia as its country of origin, naval authorities back in Corsa had done their best to remove insignia of the realm before the trio of ships set sail, so if anything went wrong, Sacoridia would not be held responsible. Fake papers had also been drawn up to show a nonexistent corporation with Stevic’s name at the head owned the vessels. Indeed, if anything did go wrong, he would be held responsible.

When they reached Messenger, Melry scrambled up the hull on the rope ladder like she was born to it. A long voyage across the sea had made her an able mariner, and she could climb to the highest spar to drop sail, or to the crow’s nest to keep watch. Stevic had promised Arms Master Drent back in Sacor City that Melry’s arms training would continue unabated during the voyage in order to prevent a decline in her skills due to lack of practice. A lapse in training could delay her entry into the academy for Weapons on Breaker Island. Sevano, who oversaw her training, incorporated the work of a ship’s hand as part of her conditioning. Drent, Stevic thought, would have no complaints. Unless, of course, Melry decided to become a sailor instead of a Weapon.

Stevic climbed after her more slowly, briefly envious of the vitality of youth, but he’d no real desire to relive those hard years, working on a privateer turned pirate ship. When he stepped over the top rail onto the deck, Melry waited for him with her hands on her hips.

“Well?” she demanded. “Why did we just leave her there? You didn’t even try to get her released.”

He raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “You know we must proceed carefully. If we make a mistake out of haste, it will not go well for us or your mother.”

She let go a long breath. “I know, but she was right there. I want my mother back.”

“I know you do.” He, too, wanted to bring her safely home. He wanted her in his arms and to never let go. “I promise you,” he told Melry, “we’re going to get her back. No matter what it takes.”

THE MERCHANT’S WAY

“I’m tired of being patient,” Melry said.

“I am, too,” Stevic replied, “but the Varosians won’t let us just take their king’s prized truth-teller. We approach this carefully, because if we don’t and mistakes are made, then there is no getting her out. Maybe there is no getting us out.” From the corner of his eye, he espied Master Hunt leaning against the opposite rail, looking landward. Perhaps he gazed at the white and golden palace that stood upon the hill that loomed above the harbor.

“Don’t worry,” he told a downcast Melry, “we will be successful, and we’ll have your mother aboard before you know it.”

Sevano strode up to them. “C’mon, lass, I’ll show you that trick with the knife, eh?”

Melry reluctantly went with him, and Stevic sighed. Dealing with a girl, a young woman, really, reminded him of how easily he sailed through fatherhood with his sisters present to raise Karigan. In fact, he’d abdicated his role as parent in the wake of his grief over the loss of his wife, Kariny. He’d not been much of a father, and yet, miraculously, Karigan had never seemed to hold it against him. He and his daughter had had, of course, their moments, especially when she’d confronted him about his history of piracy and association with a Rivertown brothel. At least Melry wasn’t concerned with the questionable exploits of his past. She just wanted her mother back, and he could not blame her. All the same, she was as strong-headed as all the other women who shared his life.

Elgin Foxsmith, a retired Green Rider and old friend of Laren’s, stood nearby, waiting for news. “What is the word?” he asked.

“She’s there,” Stevic replied, “hidden from view by a screen, but we heard her voice.”

“Will you be able to get her out?”

“One way or another, I will. If you will excuse me, I should speak with Master Hunt.”

Elgin glanced across the deck at the man, raised an eyebrow, then nodded and stepped aside.

Stevic understood Elgin’s look. Master Hunt was a spy that King Zachary had sent along with the rescue mission. He’d a way of being evasive and manipulative without one even realizing it. Stevic did not know if Master Hunt was even his real name. He doubted it.

When Stevic joined him at the rail, Master Hunt asked, “It went well?” His gaze remained fixed on the harbor.

He had an eminently forgettable appearance with thinning, mousy hair, and was of average build and height. There was little that stood out about him, an advantage to one in his profession. In the closed realm of Varos, however, any outsiders were obvious, and that was where Stevic G’ladheon the merchant and his crew came in.

Stevic watched gulls and ungainly pelicans wheel around a boat where fishermen discarded undesirable fish overboard.

“Well enough,” he replied. “She is there, though we could not see her directly, and the king wants us to return tomorrow with more goods, just as we hoped.”

“Anything else of interest that you noted?”

Stevic shrugged. “The king did not seem to be getting on well with a delegation from Kir-kranya. They had a heated exchange, heated enough that the delegation was prodded out of the throne room at the end of the guards’ polearms.”

“Hmm.” Only the slightest lilt in Master Hunt’s response suggested interest. “Varos and Kir-kranya have long been at odds,” he said. “For years, Varos has stolen Kir-kranyan land and forced the Kir-kranyans to work it.”

“The Varosians seem not to respect boundaries or the citizens of other realms,” Stevic replied. Laren was a case in point. The Varosians had traveled all the way to Sacoridia to steal her off home soil. He turned at the sudden click-clack of wooden swords. Sevano had engaged Melry in sword practice while Elgin shouted encouragement. Good.

Master Hunt turned and gazed directly at Stevic. For all that he was quite ordinary in appearance, he had the most startling light blue eyes, and they held a sharp glint as he regarded Stevic.

“Tell me your plan for tomorrow.”

Stevic nodded, and they proceeded across the deck toward the captain’s cabin.

• • •

The throne room appeared much as it had the day before, King Farrad Vir’s courtiers lounging about at their leisure, the king relaxed upon his gilded throne. Slaves fanned him as they had before, and guardsmen stood about the room at attention.

The shadow of a figure was visible behind the lattice screen. Stevic wanted to tear it down, but it would not end well if he tried. Members of his crew, and the porters Master Hunt had arranged for, mainly Kir-kranyan indentured servants who had been leased to them, brought in the first offering of goods.

The humidity and unaccustomed anxiety made sweat flow down Stevic’s face. He dabbed it away with a handkerchief. Their plan, such as it was, was not much of a plan. If the merchant’s way failed, they would have to rely on the pirate’s way. The latter could prove bloody. He glanced at the large chest that had been placed behind him. He hoped he would not have to open it.

Melry, again garbed as a boy, stared at the screen. Stevic nudged her to remind her not to be so obvious.

An official beckoned them forward, and with Stevic leading, they approached the throne and went to their knees.

“Ah, G’ladheon,” King Farrad Vir said with pleasure, “what treasures do you have to show me today?”

“My treasures are many, great king,” Stevic replied, and so the dance began. He showed off some of his richest textiles, provided samples of Rhovan wine from casks. He revealed spices from the Cloud Islands and unveiled trays of jewelry from many lands. He unrolled carpets by the greatest master weavers in Durnesia.

The king made offers, and Stevic counter-offered. The king consulted his truth-teller about the price, or questioned the quality or provenance of an item. Laren answered firmly each time, sometimes correcting a lie or exaggeration Stevic told, or affirming he spoke the truth when he did not. Somehow she had to have mastered the centipede, which Master Hunt said was impossible.

“Your truth-teller is most useful,” Stevic remarked, as more samples of wine were passed out by his crew. The king’s cup was, of course, tested by a slave to ensure it was not poisoned.

“Indeed, it is,” the king said. “Very useful. No one dares lie to me now.”

“As a merchant, I could surely use one,” he said. “You found it in Sacoridia? I wonder if there are others like it?”

“Oh, they are extremely rare,” the king replied. “It is the first we’ve found in centuries, and I only heard word of it from an outlander who had personal knowledge of it.”

Stevic tried not to react. The outlander had been the leader of the Darrow Raiders, who, in an act of vengeance, captured Laren and sold her to the Varosians.

“I’ll give you a thousand kersats for her. It.”

Stevic’s pronouncement was met first with silence, then howls of laughter.

“A thousand?” the king cried, and he laughed again.

It was, perhaps, a low offer, but not that low. “Two thousand?” he tried.

The king by now was wiping tears from his eyes. “Ah, G’ladheon, you would have to do much better, for it is priceless.”

Yes, Laren was priceless, he thought, but the king’s response did not entirely rule out negotiation. “How about this, Your Majesty, all that you have seen and tasted so far today, and this.” With a flourish of his hand, Sevano and Melry brought forth a rare bolt of angweld cloth. “Behold,” he said, “the rarest and most beautiful of materials, a dazzling length of spun gold woven into finest cloth by monks in the far reaches of the Harpheynian Mountains of northern Illydria. The craft of its making takes tens of years to master, and even longer to mine sufficient gold.” It really was that rare and masterful. This bolt had taken seventy-five years to create, the life’s work of over a dozen monks. The technique for spinning the gold was a secret, and some believed magic was used in its making, though the monks claimed it was but a gift of the gods for all the prayers they said as they wove each strand. It was just the sort of thing the king would lust after.

Sevano and Melry knelt before the king with the cloth so he could reach out and touch it. His eyes practically bulged, and Stevic knew well that look of desire, that look of avarice, for he’d seen it on thousands of faces over the years, the faces of his customers.

“I have heard of this cloth,” King Farrad Vir said in a soft voice, “but thought it a myth.”

“It is no myth,” Stevic replied, “for I have traveled to the domain of the monks myself. A long, treacherous journey it was, to the caves in which they live and toil, their chanted prayers echoing on the cliffs. I offer you this rarest bolt of cloth, all the goods you have seen thus far, in trade for one truth-teller.”

The king seemed to have to force his gaze from the gold cloth to look at Stevic. “Why is it you so desire this truth-teller?”

“You are a man of discerning taste,” Stevic said. “You’ve an eye for the rare, the unique, and the exquisite, as do I. There is nothing more thrilling than possessing something that no other man can possess.”

There was a twinkle in the king’s eyes. “And so I see we are of like mind. But, no, I cannot part with my truth-teller. However, I will buy this cloth for whatever you ask.”

Stevic gestured, and Sevano and Melry retreated with the cloth. “It is not for sale. It is only in trade for the truth-teller.”

The king stared at him in disbelief. “I could make you very rich by buying that cloth. You could purchase your own realm with what I would offer you.”

Stevic bowed. “Thank you, but I am already quite wealthy.” Though not, he reflected, so well off that he could buy a kingdom. King Farrad Vir had not underestimated the value of the gold cloth.

“It would seem then, that we are at an impasse.”

“It is easily resolved.”

“Yes,” the king said. “You can sell me the cloth. If you refuse, there are other ways for me to acquire it.”

Stevic’s heart pounded. “Your Majesty, as civilized, cultured men, surely we need not resort to threats. I once again offer you all that you have seen here today, including the gold cloth, in exchange for the truth-teller. I’ll even throw in the thousand kersats I originally offered.”

The king rocked on his throne chair with laughter, then stilled, his expression set. “No.”

Stevic let go a long breath. So, this was it.

“Your king sent an embassy some while ago,” King Farrad Vir said with a suspicious glint in his eye. “They, too, negotiated hard for the truth-teller. It seems King Zachary highly values it, as well. I was offered many things for its exchange, but I sent them away.” He narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you, too, are here on behalf of King Zachary?”

“I’ve no affiliation with King Zachary, except as his taxpaying, law-abiding subject.”

“Is this true, truth-teller?”

“Yi,” she replied.

King Farrad Vir looked surprised, and Stevic barely suppressed a sigh of relief.

“An honest merchant,” King Farrad Vir said. “It is something of a novelty.”

“Deceiving my customers is not a good business practice no matter what some of my competitors may believe, and I prefer to retain my honor intact.”

“In appreciation for your honesty and the fine goods you have shown me today,” the king said, “I will compensate you for all, including the gold cloth, but you will leave and set sail at once.”

Stevic bowed his head. “I hear you, great king, but before I leave, I do have one more offering for you.”

The merchant’s way had failed, and so it finally came down to what was in the chest.

THE PIRATE’S WAY

Stevic took a last look at the king sitting relaxed in his throne chair as the large fans wielded by his slaves waved gently up and down, up and down. Then he glanced at the expectant faces of his crew. They’d served the clan for years. Sevano and Eloni he had known since his days aboard the pirate ship, Gold Hunter. Melry, whom he should not have allowed to come, stood taut, ready, her expression eager.

Beyond his crew, he was surprised to find that his Kir-kranyan porters had remained. There were ten of them. He’d have thought they’d have waited at their ease in the courtyard.

The throne room was much smaller than King Zachary’s, more intimate, and it remained to be seen if this was an advantage or a disadvantage.

“G’ladheon,” the king said, “it is the time of rest. Do you have something to show us, or not?”

Indeed, some of the courtiers were already snoozing. Most, but not the slaves or servants or guards, napped during the hottest part of the day.

“A moment, Your Majesty,” Stevic replied. He turned to Sevano. “Let us open the chest.” And so, it had come to doing things the pirate’s way.

He saw the subtle changes in his crew, how their stances grew more rigid and the tension in their faces increased.

“Aye, Chief,” Sevano said, sounding surprisingly normal.

He and Eloni knelt before the chest and inserted keys into the padlocks. There were three, and when all were open, Sevano glanced at Stevic. Stevic nodded, though there was a good chance this was suicide.

Just as Sevano started to lift the lid, a pair of Varosian soldiers rushed in and prostrated themselves before the king, speaking excitedly in their own tongue. The king stood.

Stevic indicated that Sevano should close the lid of the chest.

“What is it?” he asked Sil.

“Most incredible,” the interpreter replied. “The Kir-kranyans are rising up and attacking the city and palace.”

“What?”

The king shouted and gesticulated. The somnolent courtiers startled to wakefulness. The two soldiers who had delivered the news to the king started to leave at a trot, but one suddenly fell, and there was a flash of silver that toppled the second, a knife in his throat.

Stevic glanced at the porters astonished to see them draw long, slim knives and daggers from concealment in their clothes, and with a roar, charge into the midst of the throne room to battle the guards who were only just realizing they were under assault. Sil ran away.

This was no coincidence, and he thought back to Master Hunt’s feigned disinterest in the relations between the Varosians and Kir-kranyans. Briefly he wondered how the spy had arranged the diversion. However he had managed it, it was just what they needed.

“Sevano!” he cried.

Sevano threw open the lid of the chest and within gleamed their cache of weapons. Melry and his crew grabbed their swords.

“Kill only in self-defense,” Stevic reminded them. “Our only goal is to retrieve Colonel Mapstone and get out.”

To that end, Melry had already dashed past the Kir-kranyans to the screen. Stevic swore and grabbed his sword from the chest and hurried after her, his crew on his heels.

King Farrad Vir, meanwhile, had disappeared, and the courtiers had scattered. He leaped over the corpse of one of the guards, ducked beneath the thrust of a sword, and skidded on the smooth marble floor when he reached Melry’s side. He helped her tear down the lattice screen, and there, calmly seated upon a pillow and draped in robes, her face veiled revealing only hazel eyes, sat Laren Mapstone.

“Laren!” he said.

She looked up at him. The sounds of fighting grew distant as he waited for her to register recognition of him, or to speak. Had they done something to her mind to make her forget?

“A thousand kersats?” she asked finally. “Really, Stevic. Is that all I’m worth to you?”

He let go a great breath of relief. “And much more besides. But now we must get you out of here.”

“And about time,” she replied. “Help me up.”

He and Melry each grabbed a hand and pulled her to her feet.

“Many thanks,” she said. “I sit so long in that position my joints lock up. Melry?”

“Momma!”

Mother and daughter fiercely embraced.

“I was never so happy as when I heard you were all right,” Laren said.

Stevic wondered when she’d heard that. He wouldn’t have minded hugging her, himself, but it would have to wait. “We have to go. There is no telling how this thing with the Kir-kranyans is going to play out, and we may not have much time.”

The throne room had emptied but for themselves and corpses.

“Laren,” he said softly.

Mother and daughter pulled apart, both with tears in their eyes. Laren yanked her veil off and let it fall to the floor. “Not yet.”

“What?”

“I need to warn the ladies, the wives, daughters, and concubines.”

“What are you talking about? We need to leave.”

“It is not far,” she said, “and they’d be a vulnerable target of the rebels.”

She lifted the hem of her robes and hastened toward a side door.

“Chief?” Sevano said.

Stevic shrugged. “She outranks me.” He charged after the impossible woman, his crew right behind him.

The corridor outside of the throne room connected to a gallery that was open to the gardens on either side. It was quiet but for bird song, no one to be seen. Laren veered down an adjoining corridor. At its end was a large door guarded by two brawny men. At the approach of Stevic’s party, they drew their swords.

Laren spoke rapidly in Varosian to them, but their expressions were scornful and they would not look at her bare face.

“Idiots,” Laren said. “They won’t listen to anything I say. The women’s quarters are beyond the door.”

“We will have to take them down, then,” Stevic said.

“They’re guarding the women,” she told him. “Don’t—”

Another man came down the corridor and exclaimed at the sight of the Sacoridians.

“Navid,” Laren said, “these are friends of mine.”

The man, Navid, was older and had a long white beard. A gold disk glinted on his neck and Stevic realized this was a favored servant. A slave.

“The palace is under attack by Kir-kranyan rebels,” she explained. “I want to ensure the women are safe.”

“What? Under attack? I must go to the king immediately.”

“Could you please tell these guards to let me through so I can situate the women?”

It had to be difficult, Stevic thought, for her to rely on a man to give the order.

Navid gave Stevic and his crew a suspicious glance. “Then what will you do?”

“Go home,” she replied brightly.

“You cannot. You are the king’s revered truth-teller. This is your home now.”

“I was King Zachary’s truth-teller before I was stolen from my homeland,” she said. “Varos will never be my home. I ask for your help for the sake of the women.”

Navid seemed to struggle with himself. He was no warrior, and would not attempt to stop them, but he could choose not to help.

“Please, Navid,” Laren said. “We can take you with us. We can return you to Bince, and you can be free again.”

“No. This may not be your home, but it is mine now. This is my life.”

“Well, then at least let me make sure the women are safe in case the Kir-kranyans find their way here.”

Navid gave her a curt nod. “For the sake of the women.” He spoke in Varosian to the guards. They glanced at one another, and then opened the door.

“Thank you, Navid,” she told him.

“I have only ever wished the best for you, Laren Mapstone,” he replied, “but know I shall inform the king of your escape.” With one last look, he hurried down the corridor.

“Shouldn’t we detain him?” Stevic asked. “Might he warn someone you are escaping?”

“My guess is that the Varosians have bigger problems to worry about.” She briefly smiled, then strode for the doorway.

Stevic and his crew made to rush after her, but the guards blocked them.

“No,” Laren told Stevic. “Only women are allowed. Melry can come, but the rest of you will have to wait.” When the guards balked at letting Melry in because of her disguise, Laren said something in Varosian. They gave Melry a hard look, but no longer impeded her.

“Be quick,” Stevic called after them.

He paced, worrying every moment they’d be caught trying to steal King Farrad Vir’s priceless truth-teller. There was not-too-distant shouting and sounds of fighting now. The guards exchanged a few words, then one of them trotted off in the direction of the activity. The other remained at his post, keeping close watch over Stevic and his companions.

Stevic was considering charging into the women’s quarters to hurry Laren up, when she and Melry finally emerged, followed by about twenty women and girls, each robed and veiled.

The guard yelled at them, presumably telling them to go back inside. Laren started to reply, but he just yelled over her. Stevic gripped the hilt of his sword. Just then, one of the women flung out a long wooden rod, possibly a broomstick, and walloped the guard over the head. The shouting ceased and he swooned to the floor, unconscious.

“Well done, Amina,” Laren told the woman. Then to Stevic, she said, “Let’s go.”

“Them, too?” he asked, nodding at the women.

“They were stolen from their families from many different lands,” she replied. “Like me. They wish to go home.”

She ran to the lead, her robes gusting out behind her. He laughed to himself. This wasn’t to be the pirate’s way, after all, but Laren’s way. He followed along with everyone else, a big grin on his face. Gods, he loved that woman!

BRUSH STROKES

According to Laren, the quickest way out of the palace was to backtrack through the throne room. Fortunately, it remained abandoned. King Farrad Vir, his courtiers, and guards had gone who-knew-where. Stevic’s crew paused to collect some of the merchandise they had brought to show the king.

“Leave it,” Stevic said. “You may need your hands free to fight.”

“I will take up the rear,” Sevano said.

Leaving behind all that merchandise, especially the angweld cloth, was a blow. He’d depleted a good portion of his inventory, and the goods he was leaving behind would greatly impact his clan’s fortune for the poorer, but he was willing to become a pauper if it meant getting Laren home safely.

In the hall outside, they encountered Kir-kranyans using whatever came to hand as weapons—polearms and swords taken from dead guards, wooden legs broken off tables and chairs, vases—to battle Varosians. Some of the Varosians turned on Stevic and his crew, and he drew his sword. They exchanged blows and the cling-clang of swords filled the expansive hall.

Stevic had been a decent swordsman in his younger days, and fortunately Sevano had seen to refreshing his skills on the voyage, even as he had trained Melry.

The Varosians were unwilling to engage Laren, who’d grabbed a sword from a corpse. It must be inconceivable to them that a woman could handle a sword, and well beneath them to engage in a fight with her. She attacked them from all sides, regardless, harassing them until they left off or were killed.

Stevic’s bosun, Ewan, cried out as a Varosian passed through his guard and stabbed him. Stevic whipped his blade around and cut into the Varosian’s neck, almost decapitating him.

When the Varosians were subdued, the remaining Kir-kranyans stood staring at the Sacoridians, poised to strike. They outnumbered Stevic and his crew.

“Ewan?” he asked.

“It’s not bad, Chief,” the younger man said.

Eloni had knelt beside him to tend the wound.

“Can you walk?” Stevic asked.

“Aye, Chief.”

“I will help him along,” Eloni said.

“Are they going to let us through?” Stevic asked Laren. His gaze had never left the Kir-kranyans. The tension between the two groups was palpable.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I—”

One of the women with them suddenly cried out and ran forward. “Riad-an! Riad!”

A tall Kir-kranyan stepped forward. “Deuon-a?”

“Riad!” the woman cried, and she threw herself into his arms.

“Deuon is Kir-kranyan,” Laren explained, “as are a few of the others.”

Deuon and Riad conversed in a rapid exchange. A couple of the other women chimed in.

“What are they saying?” Stevic asked. Laren, he had learned, had an ear for language and had apparently picked up the Varosian and Kir-kranyan tongues in the months since her capture.

“Their language is a little different from Varosian, and they’re speaking too fast, but I believe . . . I believe Deuon is trying to explain that we are helping the women.”

The tension began to ease among the Kir-kranyans.

“Laren-sa,” Deuon said, “Riad is my brother. He come to rescue the Kir-kranyans held in palace.”

Riad bowed to her.

“Your brother,” Laren said softly. “Will he let us pass?”

“Yes. He glad to.”

“He is glad to,” Laren gently corrected.

“He is glad to,” Deuon said with a smile. “They go with us. Help us go . . .” She made a gesture to fill in for the words she did not know.

“In safety?” Laren suggested.

“Yes, Laren-sa, in safety.”

“Well, then, let us—” Before she could complete her reply, she cried out and crumpled to her knees. She clutched at her neck, an expression of agony on her face.

“Laren!” He knelt beside her. “What is it?”

“Momma?” Melry asked.

“Tol Asmerand,” Laren gasped between tortured breaths.

A man short of stature and wide of girth stepped from the throne room into the outer hall. “You must not steal the truth-teller,” he said. “It is not yours. It belongs to the king.”

Stevic stood. “She belongs to no one but herself, and she’s coming with us as she wishes.”

Tol Asmerand played with a ring on his finger. Laren screamed.

“Laren, how do I make it stop?” he asked desperately.

Laren was too overcome to answer, but Deuon pointed at Tol Asmerand. “Ring on finger. Uses it to hurt.”

Stevic did not know how the ring caused Laren pain, except that it must be magic. He raised his sword and took a step toward the little man to stop him from hurting Laren, but she suddenly fell to her side and writhed in pain on the floor.

“Uh uh,” Tol Asmerand said. “If you approach, I will make it worse for it. You will back away. You will leave. You will not take the truth-teller or these other females. They belong to King Farrad Vir.”

“Stop the pain and we’ll back off,” Stevic said.

“It is done.”

Laren lay still on the floor, breathing hard, but she no longer seemed to be in pain. “I’m all right,” she whispered.

“We’ll figure this out,” Stevic told her, feeling a clenching of his heart. They would not leave her. They would find a way. He gestured for his crew to back away to where the Kir-kranyans stood.

“You will leave,” Tol Asmerand said, “or I will make it suffer worse than it has ever known and inflict permanent damage.”

Laren unsteadily began to climb to her feet. When Melry tried to go to her, Tol Asmerand twisted his ring and Laren cried out again. Melry backed away, tears in her eyes.

Deuon helped steady Laren. Laren turned to Stevic and said, “Don’t worry about me. I am going to be all right.”

“No talking,” Tol Asmerand said. “The slaves will all come with me and return to quarters.”

Laren gave Stevic a long look, then said to the other women, “Come, ladies.” They all fell in behind her as she made her slow way toward the Varosian.

“We can’t leave her,” Melry said. “We just can’t.”

“He’ll torture her if we try to take her now,” Stevic said. There had been something in Laren’s expression, something that made him wonder.

When she and the women reached Tol Asmerand, the Varosian told Stevic, “You leave now, Sacoridian. You and the Kir-kranyan dogs.”

When they didn’t move fast enough, Laren shrieked with pain. Stevic continued to back away.

The women clustered around Tol Asmerand, and at first Stevic thought they had given up and were just being compliant, but then they removed objects from beneath their robes. He’d forgotten Amina and her broomstick. The others carried ladles, a spindle, a rug beater, any tools females might have access to in Varos, and they used them to beat on Tol Asmerand. He ducked and shrank away from their assault, but it was unrelenting and he fell, and they started to kick him, too. Now he cried out.

Laren, no longer in pain, backed away from the melee. Stevic ran to her, grabbed her into his arms. All the while, the women beat Tol Asmerand without restraint, using their tools, feet, and fists. They were silent but for grunts of effort and the sounds of impact. They did not stop until they were satisfied. When at last they finished and stepped away, Tol Asmerand lay limp, his body broken and bleeding. Laren left Stevic and knelt by the corpse. She removed the ring from his finger.

Stevic looked uneasily from Laren to the women.

“Do not judge them,” Laren told him. “Tol Asmerand enjoyed ‘training’ slaves overmuch.”

“I do not doubt it,” he murmured.

After that, the Kir-kranyans helped usher them out of the palace, which had grown eerily quiet, and to the courtyard where two of their hired wagons still remained. Sevano and Eloni supported Ewan between them and helped him into one of the wagons. Eight of the women, including Deuon, who were Kir-kranyans, decided to stay behind and make their way inland to the realm of their people. That left twelve who climbed into the wagons. Laren sat up front on the driving bench of the first with Stevic, and Sevano drove the second.

The city was in chaos with much fighting. Bonfires roiled in the streets and the windows of storefronts were smashed. Troublemakers hurled rocks at the wagons and tried to grab harness, but the mules that pulled the wagons put up with no nonsense and kicked or bit anyone who tried to interfere with them. Stevic urged them into a breakneck pace down the winding street to the harbor. The women cried out as the wagons bumped and swayed. Sevano’s nearly tipped over around a bend in the street. People dove out of the way to avoid being trampled.

More of Stevic’s crew awaited them on the docks. They watched the chaos in the distance—it hadn’t yet come as far as the harbor—but they held their swords bared should anyone seek to confront them there. The Varosians, mostly simple fishermen, kept to themselves.

“We’ll have to fit everyone into two longboats.” He eyed the Varosians on the docks to make sure none of them decided to hinder them, but it appeared they didn’t want any trouble and remained distant. Trouble, however, could come to the harbor from the city, whether it was rioters, rebels, or the king’s men searching for the truth-teller. “I don’t think it’ll be safe to make a second trip.”

It was tight in both longboats, and they rode low in the water, but the harbor’s surface was calm. Stevic steered astern in his, Laren seated beside him. He glanced over his shoulder at the city. Many plumes of smoke rose above it, and shouting and screams could be heard across the water.

“Well,” was all Laren said in a quiet voice as she followed his gaze.

To Stevic, that one word felt quite loaded, as if she were an artist stepping back from her canvas to admire the effect of her brush strokes.

UNDERWAY

Oarlocks groaned as they drew near the Messenger.

“Nice ship,” Laren said.

“It is,” Stevic replied. “King Zachary insisted I helm this particular one for your journey home.”

He watched her reaction as she took in the ship’s name board and they passed beneath the prow and the feet of the figurehead. She shifted on the bench to get a better look at it, and raised both eyebrows.

“Oh, Zachary,” she murmured, and shook her head.

“You recognize her?” Stevic asked.

She nodded slowly.

“Sevano and I think it rather resembles Karigan. A coincidence, surely. What do you think?”

“I think,” she replied, “it’s a discussion for another time.”

Her answer perplexed him, but then they pulled up along the starboard hull and his attention was focused on getting the longboat passengers and crew up the rope ladder. After he himself gained the deck, he assisted those climbing up from the second longboat. When this was completed, he ordered Sevano, who acted as his first mate, to prepare to sail.

“Aye, Chief,” Sevano said, and he hoisted a bundle wrapped in canvas onto his shoulder.

“What do you have there?” Stevic asked.

Sevano peeled back a length of canvas, and gold glistened.

Stevic laughed. “The angweld cloth? You saved the angweld cloth? I ought to clap you in irons for insubordination, but I am too pleased, my friend.” He placed his hand on Sevano’s shoulder. “You may have saved the clan.”

Sevano grunted. “With this, and what we got from the king yesterday, you ought to at least keep the crew and me happy with our usual pay, and a bonus besides. I’ll go now, secure the cloth, and get us underway.”

Stevic shook his head and watched as his old friend walked the deck, ordering the crew about.

The women they had brought aboard were huddled together near the main mast, but Laren stood apart, speaking quietly with Master Hunt. Stevic joined them.

“Getting the Kir-kranyans to stand up for themselves may be the least of it,” Master Hunt was telling Laren.

“A coup?” she asked.

Master Hunt nodded.

She gazed thoughtfully back toward the harbor. The white and gold palace of King Farrad Vir that had been so prominent a feature on the harbor’s hillside was now ablaze. “Such power,” she murmured, “in uttering so small a word.”

Master Hunt turned to Stevic. “Well done, Chief G’ladheon. King Zachary will be most pleased to have his colonel back, and I doubt we’ll have pursuit.”

“There’s little danger of that since their ships could never overtake Messenger.”

Master Hunt made a noncommittal sound and headed back to the rail to watch the sailors rushing about as they prepared to set sail.

“Why do I get the feeling,” Stevic told Laren, “that this whole endeavor wasn’t just about rescuing you?”

“Zachary has interests in many realms,” Laren replied. “My being in Varos offered an opportunity.”

And sending Messenger to Varos had truly been a message of sorts. Sacoridia’s king was more formidable than he had imagined, and in rescuing Laren, Stevic had been but a game piece on an Intrigue board. He was not sure how to feel about that, but he hoped to hear more about it from Laren. Her comment about “so small a word” made him curious to know what she meant.

“Is that my daughter hanging from that upper spar?” she asked before he could pursue his own questions. She craned her neck to observe the sailors preparing to unfurl the top sail.

“It is,” he replied.

“You’ve turned her into a sailor?”

“She is an able hand,” he replied, “but I believe she’s other plans for herself.”

“Red!” Elgin limped toward them, his arms wide. Laren rushed into her friend’s embrace. “You’re all right, lass. You’re all right!”

“I am. Good to see you again. Did Stevic draw you into this adventure, too?”

“Couldn’t keep me away.”

Stevic left the two to their reunion and became busy with navigating out of the harbor and making arrangements for the women, which meant shifting cabin assignments. He gave Laren his own, the captain’s cabin, and would bunk with Sevano. With most of their cargo left in the burning palace of King Farrad Vir, there was ample space for everyone. And though they had taken on fresh supplies, more mouths to feed meant stopping at additional ports on their voyage home.

A couple hours later, they made good headway into open water with Sojourner, its figurehead that of a sailor, flanking them. He found Laren at the rail with the other women grouped around her. The breeze took away most of her words, but he moved close enough to hear her ask, “Are we ready, ladies?”

The women shouted “Yi!” and “Yes!” and “Aye!” and “Oha!” and laughed.

“Well, then,” Laren said, “let us do it now.”

They produced the veils the Varosians had forced them to wear and cast them to the wind. The colorful, silky lengths of cloth uncoiled and lofted in the air with rippling yellows, reds, blues, purples, and greens taking flight like caged birds released to freedom. In Varos, women were not people, and he assumed the veils were not just for modesty in that culture but another way to dehumanize the women by taking away their faces.

And what faces they were! Full of dazzling smiles and laughter, the women were happy to be free, it seemed, to have the fresh wind streaming through their hair as they left captivity behind.

He missed what was said next, until he heard Laren ask, “Now, who would like the honor?”

“Amina!” said one of the women, a Tallitrean.

“Amina,” the others agreed.

Amina of the broomstick. Stevic wasn’t sure where she was from. Her accent was strange. He wondered if maybe she was of the desert lands, maybe from one of the wandering tribes? He had encountered a few of those folk in his travels, and her bronze complexion and straight raven hair reminded him of them. If so, King Farrad Vir’s agents had gone to great lengths to collect his women.

Amina grinned. Delicate of feature, her eyes alight, she stepped before Laren with her palm extended. With great ceremony, Laren raised her hand above her head. Pinched between the tips of her index finger and thumb was the ring of Tol Asmerand. She then placed it on Amina’s palm.

Amina held it there and spoke softly in solemn tones. Stevic did not wish to intrude and so he approached no closer, even to hear what was said. She then clasped the ring in her fist and, after a heartbeat, threw it into the ocean. The women, now free, applauded and hugged and laughed. Soon they moved on, leaving Laren alone at the rail.

Alone. There’d been little opportunity to speak to her alone. Her rescue had not gone the way of his many fantasies conjured up during the voyage to Varos, of her throwing herself into his heroic arms. There had been just too many things that had needed attending to, like getting the ship underway, and signaling Sojourner to join them, and too many people to observe them.

He worried also that captivity might have changed her feelings for him, and a pang of doubt rippled through his chest. She stood at the rail, her expression unguarded and serene as she watched the horizon. The sun stroked her hair, turning it to new copper.

He strode up next to her and leaned on the rail, but did not speak. He, too, looked outward. In the distance lay the islands where they’d meet up with Stargazer. Messenger undulated gently as it cut through the blue-green waves, spray casting off the prow and sparkling in the light. Overhead, the sails billowed and rustled.

“How is your man, Ewen?” she asked.

“Lost a lot of blood, but Roderic is confident he’ll pull through.”

“I’m glad,” she replied, then continued gazing across the water.

He stood silently beside her, burning with questions, but hesitant to push her after all she’d been through. However, she spoke of her own accord.

“They kept me chained in the hold on the voyage over,” Laren said, without shifting her gaze. “With the livestock and other prisoners. It was dark and damp, and I saw nothing of our passage. Several of us grew ill.” She shuddered and fell silent again.

“You are free,” Stevic said.

She looked at him then. “Am I?” She tapped the bronze disk embedded in her neck. “Tol Asmerand was not the only one who possessed a control ring.”

“I will not allow any Varosian within a thousand miles of you.”

“Thank you for that,” she replied, “but I’ll never be free with this thing on me.”

“Whatever I can do to alleviate your burden, whatever you need, just ask.”

“All right, I do have a request.”

“Anything.”

“When your mender is available, I want the disk cut off. I suspect the others will want theirs removed, as well.”

He swallowed hard. The metal was fused into the skin, and while the disks were not large, no larger than a silver coin, a fair amount of skin would have to be carved off.

“If that is what you wish . . .”

“I will not abide the mark of another’s ownership of me,” she said. “Nor the chance that another Varosian, or anyone who might possess a control ring, use it on me.” She looked once more out to sea. “Tol Asmerand took great joy in training me. Thing was, he was not content to use it just for training. Even when I was compliant, he used it simply because he enjoyed the power he possessed over me. He wished to break me entirely.” After a time she added, “I know you are full of questions.”

“I am,” he said, “about everything, like the centipede they put in your ear.”

“I will tell you soon. I just need . . . I need some grace.”

They stood together in silence until Stevic was called away to go over some charts with his helmsman.

Later, when he went to ensure Laren was settled in his former cabin, he found Melry there, a green shortcoat gleaming with gold embroidery in her hands. She had brought along a chest on the voyage full of her mother’s things, thinking they’d be of use if the rescue proved successful.

Laren stood with her hands on her hips, facing her daughter.

“I apologize if I’m intruding,” Stevic said. “I can come back later.”

“Maybe you can talk some sense into her,” Melry told Stevic. She folded the shortcoat and placed it in the chest before brushing by him on her way out.

“What was that about?” Stevic asked Laren.

She sighed. “You might as well know, too,” she said. “I’m no longer a Green Rider.”

LOSS

“Not a Green Rider?” Stevic said. “What are you saying?”

“Come in and close the door,” Laren said.

He did as she asked, and sat on the trunk that held her possessions. She paced in a tight circle before sitting on the edge of her bunk. The captain’s cabin was spacious, but as spartan as a military vessel ought to be. Grand windows looked out sternside to an expanse of sky and sea, and the cabin was furnished with a desk and chair, cabinets and shelves. It was stately if not luxurious, and in a way, Stevic thought it suited Laren perfectly.

“I don’t know how much Melry told you about my capture,” she said finally.

“She told me what she remembered,” he replied, “though it was difficult for her to relive. And for me to hear. And, of course, she told me how she slipped away and hid from the Darrow Raiders.”

Laren smiled, and there was fierce pride in it. “Yes, hiding in a beaver lodge. That took some quick thinking. At the time, however, I only knew that the Raiders were going to take my daughter to their camp and abuse and kill her. It was far worse torture for me than anything else they could have inflicted on me, which Torq well knew.” She turned away from him and released a deep, shuddering breath. When she returned her gaze to him, her expression was determined. “When we get back, I will hunt down Torq and kill him with my bare hands for what he put us through.”

“I will aid in that endeavor however I may. The king sent me to retrieve you, but I would have come on my own, anyway. I felt as if my heart had been ripped out when I heard of your abduction.”

Her expression softened, and she looked down at her hands. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, and the two fell silent for some time. The restraint between them was painful, but he would not push her. She had to come around in her own time. And if she never did? He would face that possibility when it came to pass. In the meantime, he refused to entertain it.

“Among the things Melry told you about,” she said, “did she mention the centipede?”

“Yes,” he replied. “She told me how it was placed in your ear, and that it was sensitive to the use of your ability.”

“Yes. If I detected a lie in someone but claimed they were telling the truth, the centipede would react and cause me a good deal of pain, more excruciating than this disk.” She tapped the bronze brand on her neck. “I believe my hearing has been diminished in my right ear because of it, but it could have been worse. There were those enslaved at the palace I heard about who died of infections from the centipede’s bites, and still others in which the centipedes burrowed into the brains of their hosts.”

“Can you still feel it in there?” he asked. The very thought of a centipede crawling in his head was repugnant.

“No, not at all,” she replied, “which is a good thing. Otherwise, I would not have been able to manipulate King Farrad Vir so easily, but I’m getting ahead of the story.”

“It’s a good thing if you don’t feel it, isn’t it?”

“Yes. And no.”

“I don’t understand.”

“After I was first captured,” she said, “a day or two into it, while I was still in Sacoridia—I am unsure of the timing because I had been beaten by Torq, and the additional abuses by Tol Asmerand made much of that time foggy—the centipede crawled out of my ear. An ekedian centipede, I was told, cannot be removed without killing the host, and one leaving on its own is almost unheard of. You can believe I killed it right away. Fortunately, no one was present at that moment to witness the event, or surely they would have found another one to place in my ear, and upon doing so, discovered that their truth-teller was, in fact, a fraud, because it would have crawled out just like the first.”

Ah, he thought. So that was how she was able to lie to King Farrad Vir.

“But surely it is a good thing it crawled out. Is it not?”

“What it means . . .” and here Laren took a deep breath, “is that my brooch abandoned me even as I sat in the carriage of the Varosians. At that moment, I realized I could no longer see my brooch or feel the presence of my ability. Nor could I access it. It was simply gone. The emptiness of it . . .” She shook her head, pain etched into her features. “The centipede crawled out because my magic was gone, and without my brooch, I am no longer a Green Rider.”

The cabin fell to silence but for the constant ambient roar of the ocean and the creak of the ship as the wind propelled it forward. They dipped and rose with the motion of the waves, the view out the stern windows filling with churning, frothy ocean one moment, and replaced by the azure of the cloudless sky the next.

Some time ago, Laren had told Stevic about the golden winged horse brooches the Green Riders wore. Magically concealed, non-Riders could not see them, or sometimes they appeared as decorative pins, or medals. She had explained that they augmented the natural ability of a given Rider, that the ability was otherwise so weak as to be nonexistent.

“For reasons we don’t understand,” she continued at last, “a brooch abandons its Rider without warning, and when that happens, it is considered the end of that individual’s time with the messenger service. Without that brooch, an individual can no longer call on his or her ability in service to the realm. It used to be that brooches normally abandoned their Riders in about five or so years, but of late, the trend has been to hold on to our current generation longer.”

For a moment, Stevic’s hope kindled that it meant Karigan’s brooch would soon be ready to leave her. Hadn’t she been with the messenger service more than five years? But from Laren’s words, it did not sound as if it was to be the case. He was relieved, however, that Laren’s had left her, though he tried not to show it. It meant she would no longer face the dangers she had known in service to the king.

“Even so,” she continued, “I am an outlier. I’ve been—was—a Rider for almost twenty-five years. It’s unheard of, though it may have happened in the past. There is just too little in the historical records about Riders to say for sure. Zachary and I have speculated that perhaps the brooches are able to sense periods of strife, which requires experienced Riders, but we just don’t know.” She shrugged.

“So, after all these years,” Stevic said, “your brooch left you, which means you are retired. Why, if it is as you say, that brooches retain Riders during times of strife, has yours left you now when our country is at war?”

“Yes, it is the tradition that Riders retire when their brooches abandon them. The why or how of the abandonment is unknown, though there are some patterns—for instance, Riders who become injured and are too impaired to carry on their duties. But there is another theory I have, that during times of relative peace, a brooch will abandon its Rider when the Rider hears another call, maybe to settle down and start a family, or to follow a trade, or simply because they have served their time.” She shrugged. “As for me, I suspect the brooch recognized I was being torn from duty and it would not permit my ability to be used in service to a king that was not of Sacoridia. It’s only a guess. Or, it could be that it was just time, and interesting timing, to say the least.”

He rubbed the scruff on his chin with his forefinger. “You speak as if the brooches have intelligence.”

“In a sense, they seem to often have a mind of their own. Perhaps it has to do with something cast into the magic during their making. The same has been said of other arcane objects, as well.”

This all tread uncomfortable ground. Stevic had never been fond of magic. Most Sacoridians carried a latent, deep-seated fear of it, believing it led only to malignant threats like those posed by Mornhavon the Black so long ago. However, he had been learning through Laren and Karigan that not all magic was bad, though it still appeared to have a penchant for causing trouble.

“What it comes down to,” she said, “is that my brooch has abandoned me, and I can’t access my ability in service to the realm. Therefore, I am no longer a Green Rider, and yet . . .”

“Yes?”

“And yet, either I developed such a talent for assessing honesty in people over the years by sheer repetition, picking up cues of the expressions, ticks, and body language of liars, that I came to naturally recognize the signs even without the aid of my ability, or, perhaps, some latent power lingers because I wore the brooch for so long.”

“If you have retained a latent power, as you describe it, would the centipede have left you?”

“I just don’t know, Stevic, I don’t know. I can certainly feel the absence of my ability. It’s like losing one of your senses, maybe your sight or hearing. And yet, I felt confident as ever when it came to determining the honesty of those who stood before King Farrad Vir.”

“Then why can’t you continue as a Green Rider? I mean, if you can still do the job as before?”

She absently fingered the end of her braid. It was as precisely plaited as he had ever seen. “Well, there is tradition, and there are questions. Is it actually a skill I developed over the years beyond the use of my ability, or is it indeed an after effect of wearing the brooch for so long, and if so, how long will it last? Neither strike me as reliable, which does not support being able to serve the realm as I did before.”

Stevic found this reasoning ridiculous. She’d all those years of experience, experience that no magic could replace. Surely King Zachary would see the value in that and keep her by his side in some capacity, even if tradition required her to leave the Green Riders. The queen had told him how fond Zachary was of Laren. He had sent this rescue mission to retrieve her from Varos, which said much. No matter the tradition, Stevic did not think the king would set her aside.

Not that he wished her to continue to serve in the line of danger.

“The most difficult part of this,” she said, “which is not easy to express, is the grief.” She paused, swallowed hard. “The loss of something I’ve known the whole of my adult life. The companionship and certainty that came with my brooch, that sixth sense. It made me who I am.”

“Laren,” he said softly, “you have made you who you are. No brooch did that.”

“Thank you, but I am not sure it is possible for anyone else to understand, not even another Green Rider.” She sighed. “Elgin did not when I told him, for he was a Rider for a much shorter period. Most Riders are still young when their brooches abandon them, with a full life of new possibilities ahead of them. I’ve known more years of my life with mine than without, and I can’t even begin to explain how it’s been in its absence. I could not allow the Varosians to know that I no longer possessed the gift for which they abducted me. They would have simply killed me as I wasn’t young or attractive enough for other uses. I had to pretend I still had my ability. I—” She shuddered, and could not seem to continue.

“Laren?”

She sat there, taut, her eyes closed. “I can’t—. . . I can’t—”

He stood and moved to sit next to her. “Yes, you can.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “You are free of Varos. You are free now to grieve.” He felt her fighting for control of her emotions, the quaking of her body. “I know it is hard for you. You don’t want anyone to see you as weak. You could not let the Varosians see, and you don’t want anyone else to see. But it is not a weakness to grieve. You do not have to bury it anymore. It’s just me here, and no one else has to know.”

An abrupt sob escaped her, then another, and he drew her to him, her face pressed into his shoulder as she wept. He held her as she released her grief, and all that she had experienced as a captive of the Varosians. He gently rocked her and murmured quiet encouragement so that she could release her emotions unimpeded. Laren Mapstone, he thought, had so long had to lead and take care of others that he wondered who had ever taken care of her? When was she ever, as a Green Rider officer, allowed to express her true emotions? That she did so with him now was a privilege.

When she finished, she pulled away, wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her robes, and snuffled. “Thank you,” she said. Her words were a little shaky.

“If you ever need a shoulder,” he replied, “I will ever be at your service.” One release of emotions, he thought, did not mean she was over the grief and trauma. It would be a lengthy recovery.

She nodded, sniffed once more, and then in true Laren Mapstone fashion, stood and placed her hands on her hips. “Right. I have done enough talking for now. I want to hear what is happening back home.”

Stevic, of course, wanted to hear more about her time in Varos, and about “manipulating” King Farrad Vir, but it could wait. She deserved to hear whatever she wished, though, of course, none of what he had to tell her was current. He recounted how he had ridden cross-country from Selium to Sacor City in the wake of Melry’s abduction, only to learn that Melry had escaped, and that Laren had been taken by the Darrow Raiders and sold to the Varosians.

“To my surprise,” he said, “the king had sent a message from the front to reside with the queen in anticipation of my probable return to Sacor City. Of course, he must have known I would agree to the scheme of bringing you home, should his embassy fail.”

He did not linger on the details of his preparation for the voyage, but told her what he knew of the war, which was almost nothing.

“The king and his army were still encamped by the Wingsong Mountains holding siege of the keep at the Eagle’s Pass. Your Riders had searched for you, but failed, and the king called them off.”

“Yes,” she said. “The Varosians hid me with magic.” She sighed. “I can only hope that Zachary has retaken the keep and brought humiliation to the enemy.”

Stevic was about to agree when a knock came on the cabin door.

“What is it?” Stevic called.

“Chief,” Eloni said, “Roderic is ready for the colonel if she’s still wanting to be seen to.”

Stevic glanced at Laren. “Are you up to this?”

Her smile was grim. “I will not be free until this disk is gone.”

IN THE VILLAGE OF ORCHARD HALE

It is said that nothing much happened in the village of Orchard Hale. Located in a forgotten corner of D’Ivary Province, the great events of the realm had passed the small farm community by. The war with Second Empire might as well have occurred on the other side of the world as far as the villagers were concerned. They kept to themselves, peaceably tended their livestock, and plowed their fields. It was all quite unremarkable.

But now a great terror had ridden into the village center, and the folk of Orchard Hale had flown into their homes and bolted their doors and windows. Some hid in root cellars, some under their beds, and others ran away into the night as far and as fast as they could. The wraith, Lichant, cared not, intent only on the path to the village’s edge where the blacksmith’s shop lay, the rusted remnants of its sword wrapped in burlap and leather tucked beneath its arm.

The smith sent his young apprentices running to safety out the back even as the wraith’s shadow fell across his door. When the door slammed open, the smith fled, too. The wraith entered the shop but did not pursue its owner.

The villagers knew not the wraith’s business, only that the forge fire roiled and glowed in the windows of the blacksmith’s shop, and that sulfurous smoke gusted from the chimney as if exhaled from the hells themselves. A soulless song, an incantation of no melody, permeated the air, the words unknown to any but the wraith, their texture unclean, foul. All who heard it covered their ears, but they could not fend off the dread that wormed into their hearts. The clang of hammer upon anvil clamored through Orchard Hale with an unnerving mechanical cadence even as the dim moon descended in the west.

• • •

In the ash gray murk of dawn, the door to the blacksmith’s shop opened. Those who dared peek through the corner of a window or keyhole observed the hellish form of the wraith step outside. A rising wind lifted the black rags of its ancient garb around it. Soot and smoke and the taint of ill-forged steel drifted in the air.

In its boney hand it grasped a sword that gleamed a sickly green color. The wraith lifted it above its head and loosed a wail of triumph that rent the countryside seemingly into tatters.

And then it was gone. Vanished. The shadow that had hung over the village dissipated just like that. The villagers heaved a sigh of relief that the dread creature had departed, leaving them no more than shaken, but as the morning progressed, they came to realize this was not entirely true.

In the village of Orchard Hale where nothing ever happened, horses foundered, cows gave sour milk, the local moon priest went inexplicably blind, and children grew fevered with the pox. All the expectant mothers went into early labor and lost their babies, and the hearts of four villagers, including that of the blacksmith, failed at the same exact time.

Or so it is said.

A DECISION OF THE HEART

“Well,” Fergal said, “you hit the target.”

“Not her own, unfortunately,” Arms Master Gresia replied.

Karigan wanted to break her bow. Her arrow had veered off course again and hit Anna’s. The other trainees once again approached. They tended to scatter to a safe place when Karigan took aim. Arms Master Gresia remained as unperturbed as usual. It was almost harder than having Drent bark at her. He’d given up on her for anything except sword and staff training, and hand-to-hand combat, and so she returned to training with her fellow Riders for most everything else.

“Don’t worry, Karigan,” Gresia said, “we’ll keep working on it. Having only the one eye skews your aim.”

Karigan, however, hadn’t been much good at archery, or knife throwing, or anything like that even before she had lost the use of her right eye.

“You got used to swordplay with one eye,” Gresia continued, “and it will be so with archery. We will find a way.”

Her determination was comforting, but perhaps her optimism was misplaced. Karigan had already been banned from training in mounted archery for the safety of the horses.

“We should . . .” Gresia trailed off and the other Riders started murmuring.

Karigan turned around to see what had caught their attention. Six Eletians approached led by Telagioth, his cloak drifting behind him. Enver brought up the rear. Their mere presence seemed to brighten the leaden light of the day. Anna sighed happily beside her, caught in the enchantment the Eletians all but radiated. They were accompanied by Mara.

“My lords and ladies,” Gresia said with a bow, “you honor us with your presence. How may we be of service?”

“We heard that our Dama was training in archery,” Telagioth replied, “and we wished to observe.”

Karigan wilted inside. Eletians were the most phenomenal archers she’d ever witnessed and now they’d find out just what a fraud their Dama was.

“The king directed me to show our guests whatever they wished,” Mara said, “and this is what they wished.” She sent Karigan a hesitant look, for Karigan’s deficiencies with projectiles were well known.

“I am afraid there isn’t much to see,” Karigan said. Might as well have it said right up front, she thought. “I’m terrible at archery.”

“We would like to see,” Lhean said.

“Why don’t you all line up and demonstrate your training,” Gresia told the Riders.

Bless her, Karigan thought. She wouldn’t be singled out, although it would reveal how inferior her skills were compared to the other Riders.

The trainees took their positions, and at Arms Master Gresia’s word, loosed their arrows. Karigan’s nicked the edge of the target—her own target, which was an improvement. The others had all hit their targets close to the center if not in the bull’s-eye.

“Well done,” Telagioth told them.

“Perhaps our guests would like to provide us a demonstration in return?” Gresia asked. “I have heard that the people of Eletia are unparalleled archers.”

“Some are,” Telagioth said. He looked delighted by the request, but added, “It was not our intention to disrupt the training.”

“You have not. Perhaps these Riders can learn from you.”

Telagioth spoke in Eltish to his companions, and they all stepped forward and took the places of the Riders. They’d their own bows, which were akin to longbows, taller and much more elegant than the beat-up practice bows the trainees used.

Not a word was spoken, but before anyone realized the Eletians had nocked arrow to bow string, white arrows had impaled the centers of each target.

Arms Master Gresia’s mouth dropped open. She then cleared her throat. “Perhaps you’d be willing to offer my trainees a few pointers?”

“Eletians have hundreds and thousands of years to hone their skills,” Telagioth said, “and vision sharper than an eagle’s. But perhaps I may offer some wisdom.” He gazed at each of the awed Riders. None had been around Eletians as much as Karigan, and the experience could be overwhelming, the music of their voices, the speed and litheness of their movements, their bright spirits. They described themselves as beings of magic, she knew, and it was apt. “You must open yourself to the elements. How does the wind blow in your hair and among the trees? How damp and heavy is the air? This will assist you in knowing how an arrow will travel. You must also still yourself, slow your breathing, slow your heart, and cultivate a belief in hitting your target. That belief must ride upon the arrowhead itself and guide it into your target.”

The first bit about knowing how the elements—wind, humidity, rain, and so on would affect an arrow’s flight was common sense, but the second part about believing and envisioning? Karigan imagined her face must reflect the perplexed expressions of the other Riders. She had a feeling they’d all be puzzling out Telagioth’s wisdom for some time.

He asked the Riders to take a few more practice shots, and the Eletians came among them and helped adjust their grips on their bows and their aim. Lhean took time with her to help her sight the target with her one eye and she did much better.

When finally the training session came to an end, Master Gresia said, “I thank you for the demonstration and assistance. It was a fine way to conclude today’s session.”

As she dismissed the Riders, Mara and the Eletians approached Karigan.

“Our visitors wish to speak with you,” Mara said, “so I will leave them with you. The queen has offered the use of her solar and says you may take as much time as you need. I can cover your afternoon duties.” The smile in her eyes indicated there would be some form of repayment required.

Telagioth walked up front with Karigan as she guided them into the castle and to Estora’s solar. The plants grew as wildly as ever, and the Eletians murmured among themselves in approval and admiration.

They found enough chairs so they could all sit in a circle. Enver, of course, did not sit near her. She’d Telagioth to one side and Lhean to the other.

“Your queen has a gift with all that grows,” Lhean said.

“Yes,” Karigan agreed. That was putting it mildly. “Have you finally decided to give me answers?”

“Depending on the questions,” Telagioth said, “we will answer what we can.”

“First,” Telagioth said, “we wish to tell you we are reassured that your king and queen recognize you as a daughter of the House of Santanara. They tell us, however, that you do not wish to be accorded special treatment. Is this true?”

“It is. Frankly, I’d like to be treated as an ordinary Green Rider, but it is difficult when these—these things keep happening to me.”

“You do not wish to be of the House of Santanara? It is an unprecedented honor.”

She hesitated before answering. “I do not wish to give offense, and while I am indeed honored, my life has been complicated enough without this additional title.”

The Eletians responded with silence, and despite the way she had worded her response, it seemed she had offended them anyway.

“It is not merely a title,” Lhean said, “but royal kinship. To reject it is to reject familial ties, if not Eletia itself.”

“I understand,” she said, “and I am grateful for the honor, but honors of this magnitude confer certain burdens I’m not certain I am capable of bearing. I don’t understand why I have been adopted into the House of Santanara in the first place. No one has given me an explanation. Why did King Santanara do this?”

“The king has expressed some reasons openly, but there may be others of which we are unaware. The king keeps his own counsel, but I believe we can assume he sees something of the forthcoming battle and believes you’ve an important part to play.”

She did not like the sound of that. “I expect I’ll be participating regardless. It still does not explain this extraordinary step.”

“No, it does not, but it does offer you a level of protection among those Eletians who have perceived you as a threat.”

So, there were still Eletians interested in killing her? “The wild magic left me long ago.” An Eletian had tried to assassinate her because she’d been tainted by dark wild magic, and it was feared she would cause the collapse of the D’Yer Wall.

“Yes, but not all are convinced you won’t be the downfall of Eletia. Great powers run through and around you, Dama, and it makes some uncertain. Others of our folk thought it would be enough to entrap and control you, and use certain of your gifts as they saw fit.”

So, it was true. The Eletians had used Enver knowing his time of unfolding was near and would give her cause to be taken into Eletia and controlled. She glanced at Enver, but he gazed away into space.

“So that’s it,” she said, anger rising in her voice. “The king named me to the House of Santanara to bind me to Eletia and control my . . . abilities.”

“It may be that it does appease some,” Telagioth said, “but . . .”

“But?”

“My sense is that this is mainly an altruistic move on the king’s part.”

She stared at Telagioth, stared into his depthless cerulean eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am, Dama. I have discussed it with my companions, and they agree that the king’s adoption of you was a decision of the heart.”

The other Eletians murmured in agreement.

A decision of the heart, was it? Perhaps, but her interactions with Eletians had made her cynical and she wondered what King Santanara’s true motives were.

KING SANTANARA’S GIFT

Servants brought refreshment into the solar, mainly warm drinking chocolate from the queen’s personal stock. The Eletians were delighted, and while Karigan did not receive the same revitalizing effects from it that they did, it lifted her spirits nonetheless. Soon, however, the discussion of her status resumed.

“If King Santanara does have ulterior motives for adopting you into his House,” Telagioth said, “they are known only to himself. In the alluvium he has spoken highly of your deeds, of how you rescued Argenthynian Sleepers and led them to Eletia through a piece of time, and at great peril to your person. More of those Sleepers are awakening with the danger of Blackveil arising, and the king has ensured they know who brought them to safety.”

This mollified her somewhat, this acknowledgment of the risk she’d put herself in to rescue them. In that piece of time, she had met Santanara himself. It was some period after the Long War, but before he’d become a Sleeper for so many centuries. She’d found him bathing his hand in a stream, and something about that stream niggled a flash of a memory, or a dream, but she couldn’t hold onto it. She shook her head.

“The light of Laurelyn still shines within you, though it has faded somewhat with her passing, but not entirely. You carry her light even in her absence and that is an enormous gift for us all, and it, too, is known to the king, and through him it is also known among the surviving Argenthynians.”

She sipped her chocolate as she digested his words. She asked, “What do the Argenthynians make of an ordinary mortal helping them?”

Telagioth smiled. “Many find it difficult to believe for they have no recollection of the exodus. As the truth settles in there is much gratitude, but you must also understand there is much confusion and grief. Confusion to wake up in Eletia and learn that their country had been taken and corrupted by Mornhavon. We have known this all our lives, but to them it is new. They grieve for the many who could not be saved. Even deeper sorrow over those transformed by the evil of Blackveil.”

Dark Sleepers, Karigan thought. Mornhavon had perverted Argenthyne into Blackveil Forest, inhabited by monstrous creatures of his making. Blight and decay spread through the forest like a disease. The Sleepers who remained innocently asleep in their Groves had not been immune to the dark and decay that consumed the land, for the roots of the trees they Slept in sipped tainted water, and the corruption seeped inward rotting not only the hearts of the trees, but those of the Sleepers. They’d been transformed into vicious, dangerous beings. At least, that’s how she understood it. She licked sweet chocolate off her lips and shuddered.

“Yes,” Telagioth said. “I see you understand the shock of their great loss of kinfolk and friends, of poets, artists, philosophers, great warriors, and the wise. Many who were loved and admired are lost to us. However, the miracle of Laurelyn preserving part of her Grove in a piece of time and you, a mortal woman, leading the survivors to safety is not lost upon them.”

“I am sorry they could not all be rescued,” Karigan said quietly.

“It was beyond even Laurelyn’s ability, she who was the greatest of us all, and the forces of Eletia. This is why it is such a miracle, and this is what gave Prince Jametari pause during your trial in the Alluvium.”

Memories of that fraught scene came back to her from summer when she’d trespassed into Eletia, a high crime for which execution was the usual punishment. She recalled the natural chamber of the Alluvium, the waterfall like a liquid wall behind her while she awaited judgment, wondering if she’d be tossed over the edge into the torrent far below. Before the final verdict, however, Jametari had called a recess and departed for a time. When he returned, there was no verdict announced, but he proclaimed her a scion of the House of Santanara, shocking all who were present.

“Prince Jametari,” Telagioth continued, “left the Alluvium during your trial to seek counsel with the king in the Grove. The king, though he Slept, was able to communicate his wishes in regard to your fate.”

Well, she thought, that explained the sudden change of tenor in the Alluvium that day.

“It was not just your rescue of the Argenthynians, however, that moved the king to adopt you.”

“What else was there?” Karigan asked.

“Our king was deeply bereft by the loss of Graelalea. She often attended him as he Slept. He knows that she held some comradeship with you on your journey into Blackveil and favored you with a rare feather of the winter owl, a sign of great respect and honor, and perhaps most importantly, friendship.”

Karigan stared into her empty cup. Graelalea had called the feather enmorial, which meant memory. She had lost the feather in the future.

“It is, in part, in honor of his daughter that the king has adopted you, and because of her regard for you.”

Karigan thought of Graelalea as they had left her in Castle Argenthyne. She had been slain by groundmite arrows, her body laid out in respect by the Eletians in her party and abandoned.

“Our king marks your deeds and the esteem you have drawn from others,” Telagioth continued. “If there are deeper reasons, we have not been informed. It is his hope you will visit Eletia as his daughter and be welcomed as befits your station. However, he believes it will be the field of battle upon which you meet.”

All he said reassured her that her adoption into the House of Santanara hadn’t simply been a manipulation to gain access to her powers—mainly her mirror eye—but the part about meeting on the field of battle aroused a sense of foreboding in her. She had liked the little she’d seen of King Santanara through the piece of time. He was also the one who had presented the winged horse banner to the First Rider. Still, after all her dealings with Eletians, she’d have to step carefully, not lower her guard and be lulled by pretty words because she felt with a certainty they’d use her to their advantage and that even an “altruistic” King Santanara possessed motives she could not guess.

“We’ve a gift for you from our king and the Eletian people,” Lhean said. “Cenna?”

One of the Eletians stood and removed a bundle wrapped in fine linen from her pack.

“Oh, more gifts are not necessary,” Karigan said. “I’ve the moonstone and the ring.” She showed them the ring with the emerald birch leaf that adorned her finger.

“Ah, but those were from Ealdaen and Prince Jametari, respectively,” Telagioth said. “The king himself ordered the making of this just for you.”

Cenna bowed as she presented the bundle to Karigan. Karigan glanced at the expectant Eletian faces—expectant except for Enver, who appeared lost in thought. She pulled on the string and it simply fell away, no knot to fight. Beneath the layers of linen she folded back was a cloth of deep forest green, very much the same green as her uniform. Perplexed, she shook out the cloth to reveal its form. To her astonishment it was a longcoat. There was the winged horse embroidered into the shoulder of the left sleeve in shimmering white gold, and more intricately stitched than on any of her Rider uniforms.

The material was smooth and soft, richer than silk. Such material could restore her clan’s fortune, but she had a feeling the Eletians would decline to produce textiles for trade in the mortal realm. As she stood to get a better look at the longcoat, there was a subtle silvery shimmer to the material, like the underside of a new spring leaf fluttering in a breeze. The shadows in the folds only deepened, reminding her of velvety moss beneath the Green Cloak’s tall trees. Embroidered green on green were birch leaves.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said.

“Will you try it on, please?” Cenna asked.

Karigan put it over her work tunic. It was cut like her usual longcoat, yet had an Eletian elegance to it, a flair that made it at once like a Rider coat, and not.

Appropriate, she thought.

It fit perfectly. “How did you know my size?”

“We had an idea of it,” Lhean said, “and the cloth adjusts to its wearer.”

“It what?” She really had to find out what this material was.

But now a rapid debate ensued in Eltish among the six of which she understood nothing. She shrugged and whirled to see how the coat flowed about her hips and legs, and to see it shimmer.

“Are you pleased with it?” Telagioth asked.

She realized the solar had gone quiet. The Eletians gazed expectantly at her.

“Very much so. I must send thanks to the king.”

“It is well, then. It is our hope you will wear it when we attend your queen’s harvest ball as a representation of both Eletia and Sacoridia.”

It was perfect, she thought. No worries about a ball gown, but raiment that would elevate her formal uniform.

“It has, however,” Telagioth continued, “come to our notice that it is lacking the shield emblem on your right sleeve. If you would return the coat to Cenna, we will fix it.”

Reluctantly she removed it and passed it back to Cenna.

“We would like,” Lhean said, “to tell you of some of our customs, and of our people, while we are here.”

“I would like that.” Any window into the mysterious world of the Eletians would be useful and she could share it with Zachary. Not that she would consider herself a spy or anything.

“Then we will begin immediately.” He wasted no time and launched into a history of Eletian people ancient beyond ancient times. “There were once several great Houses,” Telagioth said, “but now there are few. Santanara, of course, is the ruling House. Laurelyn’s House, Aldaria, was the ruling House of Argenthyne, the most ancient and wise of all. Aldaria were the first to depart Avrath and walk upon this Earth.

“Soeldar was another great House, but the Soeldari journeyed away from us and we believe they made their home far into the frozen wastes of the great ice.”

“Wait,” Karigan said, “there are more Eletian realms out there?”

“Once there were several, but they have vanished from the Earth for one reason or another, or merged with Eletia and Argenthyne. Of the Soeldari, if they persist, we know little. They’ve been estranged from us for thousands of years. We’ve had no contact with them.”

It was rather exciting, Karigan thought, to imagine a lost nation of Eletians still somewhere out in the world that was a mystery even to other Eletians.

And so hours passed as Telagioth spoke of the farthest reaches of time and listed so many Eletian names and Houses that she could not keep track. The others sat as if in a trance as they listened to his slow, steady recitation. It was musical in its way, a chanting not unlike those of monks in prayer, but with a beauty that surpassed hallowed cloisters and flowed like a gentle breeze riffling the surface of a lake. His words carried the weight of the Ages, like a thick tome of history, and she wondered if this was, in fact, how Eletians kept their history and passed it on.

Telagioth’s voice was so soothing that she gave up listening to the words and making sense of them. Her eyelids drooped and she dreamed, or thought she did, of Eletian people living among vast forests, their peace and contentment disrupted by turmoil and battle. Warriors arrived from the heavens with blazing swords to fight in skies blackened by demons and, at other times, one another. Many great wars ensued. In this manner she was given layers upon layers of Eletian history from Avrath to— Someone shook her shoulder. Abruptly her visions of the endless past of the Eletians fell away and left her with only flitting images she could not explain, similar to the way ordinary dreams were understood only during the dreaming. She blinked dazedly and was surprised to find that all the Eletians had departed except for Telagioth.

“We forget that your folk have not the endurance or capacity for the sagas of our people,” he said, eyes glinting with humor, “and I had not even reached the turmoil of what is often called the Black Ages. But you wished to learn more of Eletia.”

“I am sorry I dozed off, or whatever it was I did,” Karigan replied. “I hope I haven’t caused offense.”

He bowed. “No offense taken. It is what we call a learning trance.”

“Perhaps we don’t try to cover all of Eletian history in one go?”

He laughed. “So it shall be, though I did spare you from going into depth with stories of Avrath. One day, perhaps.”

“Maybe we can stick to current day Eletia?”

“Ah, but which current would it be? We shall see you again the night of the ball, Dama.” He bowed and strode from the solar.

Karigan sat there among the greenery of Queen Estora’s solar. Which current? she wondered. Obviously there was more than one thing happening in Eletia at any given time, but she was not sure that was what Telagioth had implied. If there was anything she had learned about Eletians, it was that there were many layers of meaning in what they said that defied interpretation.

• • •

Karigan entered her chamber with a sigh. Her meeting with the Eletians and listening to the epic tales of their history left her feeling as if she were aboard a swift sailing vessel on some great, endless voyage, still in motion rising and falling on the waves though she stood at rest on dry land.

Dim light filtered through her arrow slit window in a shaft of dancing dust motes. She crossed over to the hearth to stir the embers and build up the fire. She’d no duties for the rest of the day and contemplated how she might spend her rare free time. Since Condor would be turned out to pasture until feeding, she did not feel inclined to disturb him just so she could go for a ride. Horses deserved free time, too. A nap would be nice, but she kind of had one when she listened to Telagioth’s history of the Eletians. She glanced over her shoulder toward her desk where ledgers awaited her attention, and she groaned.

No, not that.

She placed wood on the embers and used the bellows to encourage the fire to take. When she was satisfied, she straightened and noticed something glint on her mantel. She kept a number of items there, including pretty rocks she’d found on various errands, a couple candles, a lucky horseshoe, dirty teacups, and a sock.

A sock? Why’d she put that there? And yuck, there was a layer of dust and cobwebs on everything. Cleaning was never a priority.

The glinting object was half obscured by a ceramic horse she had received from her father one Night of Aeryc. She moved the horse to reveal an Intrigue game piece, a mounted messenger resting on its side in the “dead” position.

“That’s strange,” she murmured. She didn’t possess an Intrigue set nor any individual pieces, and she had never seen this one before.

She picked it up and was surprised to find it was made of heavy glass. She took it by her window for a closer look. Daylight gleamed through it and tinted the flesh of her palm green.

“Where did you come from?” she asked.

The Intrigue board in the common room had plain wooden markers, so it was not part of that set. Did someone leave it on her mantel to tease her? It was pretty well known among her friends that she disliked Intrigue. The game was more a test of strategy developed long ago, not for pure entertainment, but most likely to train nobles in the art of subtlety, cunning, and deceit, qualities she personally found distasteful rather than admirable.

She couldn’t recall ever having seen Intrigue figures made of glass, and she couldn’t imagine to whom it belonged or why they would leave it on her mantel. She always kept her door cracked open so Ghost Kitty could come and go, which meant anyone could wander in, but still . . .

She’d ask around if anyone knew anything about it. It couldn’t have just appeared out of nowhere.

“I will find out who put you there,” she told it.

She was about to place it back on her mantel when a whisper came into her mind: “Your move, Green Rider.”

“Wha—?”

The glass messenger exploded into a dazzling cloud of fine particles that glittered in her vision before subsiding and vanishing into nothing. She gazed at her empty hand in astonishment, then looked about herself. The game piece was not to be seen broken or entire. Not a single fragment of glass could she find. Had she imagined it all?

A knock came on her door and she jumped. “Yes?”

A Green Foot runner peered in. “Rider? The king requires your presence down in the chapel.”

“The chapel? Was a reason given?”

“No, ma’am.”

Now what? she wondered.

INTO THE CRYPT OF CLAN SEALENDER

The Weapons Travis and Erin ushered Karigan from the castle’s commoner chapel into an antechamber that served as a processional and family gathering area for transferring the deceased during interment, but also functioned as a warming room for the Weapons who guarded the dead. Brass fittings, somber hangings, and heavy drapes of velvet and brocade filled the room. A coffin rest sat at one end like an altar.

Seated within and taking tea was Zachary, guarded by the Weapons Fastion and Donal. Karigan glanced at all three of them and bowed to her king.

“Ah, Rider,” Zachary said, “I am pleased you could join us. Your meeting with the Eletians went well?”

“It was . . . interesting?”

“That’s a question?”

“Uh . . .”

Zachary chuckled and set his teacup aside with a clink. “Yes, the Eletians are enigmatic. Please sit and tell me about it.”

“I will,” she said hesitantly, “but first I should tell you about something odd that happened to me just now.” She described the incident with the glass game piece. “I am unharmed,” she reassured him.

“I’m glad of it,” he replied, “but this is very disturbing.”

“Do you remember when the gray entity broke the dome in the records room?” she asked.

“It is difficult to forget.”

“Before it vanished, the entity said the same thing to me: Your move, Green Rider.”

“So this entity likes to play games,” Zachary mused. “I don’t like how it is able to come and go at will. I will ask Rider Quick to ward your chamber when she returns from leave. In the meantime, I will assign Weapons to—”

“No! I mean, no thank you, Your Majesty,” she said. All she needed was Weapons hanging around her door, creating one more reason for her fellow Riders to think she was being treated special.

“I know how you feel about it, but I would feel better knowing you were guarded.”

She glanced at the Weapons present—Fastion and Donal, and Travis and Erin. Their expressions were remote and they appeared to have no interest in the conversation.

“I have a feeling guards would not be able to deter this entity,” she said. “Weapons guarding me would draw attention that would complicate my ability to carry out my duties.”

He brooded in silence for some time. “Very well, but there will be more patrols through the Rider wing. Do not worry, the Weapons will be discreet. You won’t even know they’ve been by.”

Karigan nodded. As much as she hated the idea of having any watchers at all, this was a reasonable compromise.

“Now,” he said, “tell me about the Eletians.”

Karigan obeyed, only lightly touching on the possibility that King Santanara had adopted her because he wished to possess access to her powers. Zachary had surmised as much anyway. She’d never told him what had transpired between her and Enver when he became afflicted with the accendu’melos for she knew it would displease him not only because she’d almost been forced . . . raped . . . , but that it had all been set up as a scheme by the Eletians to bind her to Eletia. She did not wish to provoke a riff between allies. Her own anger was firing up even as she thought about it, but she quickly tamped it down. Once the alliance was no longer imperative, she would give her Eletian “father” an earful, no matter his altruistic leanings. Did she really want to be part of a people who manipulated her in this manner?

“Rider?” Zachary said softly.

She started. “I’m sorry, did I miss something?”

“You were lost in thought. Is there something more you wish to tell me, besides the fact you received no real answers and their history put you to sleep?”

She hadn’t told him about the gift and figured it was not relevant anyway. “That’s it, more or less.”

He gave her an assessing look as if he didn’t quite believe her. “I suppose what you did get out of them we had, on the most part, deduced. I am pleased King Santanara has recognized the part you have played in helping his people.”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so?” He laughed. “You are positively indefinite, but I suppose Eletians have that effect on people.”

She smiled and shrugged.

“I must admit I’m intrigued by the idea of hearing their history,” he said. “Ancient to a depth beyond our perception.” He shook his head. “And other realms of them once scattered across the lands.” Despite his interest in the topic, he did not press her further about her visit with the Eletians. Instead, he changed the subject. “One of the reasons I asked you to join me is I am curious to know what you make of this.” From his coat pocket he produced a stone that radiated a gentle golden light, but it was no moonstone.

“It glows!” she exclaimed.

“Yes. Back when the aureas slee held me prisoner in its caverns, I discovered they were naturally lit by these light stones. Upon my return home, I sent a party of miners and artificers to explore that region to see if mining the stone was feasible. It is not nearly as brilliant as the silver moonlight captured in your muna’riel, but I am told that exposure to sunlight brightens the stones a great deal. If we can mine it in large quantities, it could provide for many practical uses.”

Karigan could imagine those uses, from lighting one’s home and the city streets, to creating a portable light that would be safe to carry in the dark. It would reduce the realm’s reliance on flame, in turn reducing the chance of fire.

“I have been wondering,” he said, “what your merchant’s instincts would make of such a commodity.”

“It would be astonishing,” she said. “Our lives would change dramatically. People could work longer into the night. No more expensive whale oil or candles. Those industries would likely go extinct, or nearly so, making the whalers and chandlers very unhappy. However, whoever produced this stone and brought it to market would become extremely wealthy.”

“Yes, I quite agree. The benefits, I believe, outweigh the repercussions with the whalers and chandlers, and the smaller industries that support them. There would be new industries.”

“Do the stones give light forever?” she asked. “If so, their long-term marketability would wane if they didn’t have to be constantly replaced. After all, that’s what keeps the whalers and chandlers in business. Whale oil and candles burn away.”

He rolled the stone around on his palm. Its glow reflected golden in his brown eyes. “I’ve natural philosophers studying the samples to determine the longevity issue, and the artificers here in the tombs will be experimenting with how to enhance the glow. They’ll run a trial of their usefulness in certain parts of the tombs before we allow word to spread of our discovery.”

That was wise, she thought. The security of the tombs was perfect for keeping the stones secret. And now she understood why he had requested her presence here.

“However,” he said, “this is not the sole reason I’ve asked you to join me in the royal tombs.”

On the other hand, she was apparently still in the dark.

He pocketed the stone. “Let us take a walk, you and I.”

Fastion and Donal opened the doors to the tombs proper. Cool dry air rolled into the warming room. She sighed. The tombs were not her favorite place to visit. So many corpses. The Weapons, including Erin and Travis, followed them as they crossed the threshold into the Halls of Kings and Queens. Karigan’s urge to run back out was very strong. The statuary of long dead monarchs gazed coldly upon her, and the hard stone sarcophagi were but reminders of her own fate to one day be but a faded memory, her remains buried out of sight, fodder for worms.

“May I ask where we are going?”

“To the chamber of the shield you discovered,” he replied.

Ah, the dragonfly device. “You’ve examined it before, haven’t you?”

“I have, but I wish to take another look, and perhaps having you along will inspire new thoughts about it.”

She didn’t see how, but she did not object to being in his company even if it meant having to enter the tombs. A pall of silence fell over them but for their footfalls. No breeze rustled branches, no birds sang or chirped, no sounds of a busy market disturbed this sepulchral place or the quiescence of those who slumbered as silently as stone.

“I’ve a handful of reports,” he said, “of strange activity occurring around the archipelago off Arey where it is believed Beryl Spencer searched for my cousin. Reports of great sea monsters suddenly emerging from the waves, and one or two of immense flying creatures spouting flame. Some ships have gone missing, as well.”

She recalled the messenger from Arey who had brought such a report to Zachary during a public audience. “Do you believe it?” she asked. “About the dragons?”

“Dragons will come. That is what Lord Alton said, is it not? Dragons will come. I know that area in the Northern Sea is rife with superstition, but the reports are too consistent.”

“Mornhavon’s great weapon,” she murmured. The entire idea of dragons being real ignited a primal fear in her belly.

“It is impossible to know absolutely if these are really dragons, or how all this will play out, especially when one reflects on your experiences in the future time. Did your return from the future change how events will unfold? We will only know as they happen, or do not happen.”

They turned from the main avenue into a branching corridor that was the Sealender crypt and walked the central aisle between sarcophagi. Murals of the seacoast added color to drab stone, the iconography of the seagull most prominent for it was the ancient symbol of Clan Sealender. An arched doorway led to older tombs filled with wall niches for the dead, including old Agates, but they did not enter, instead halting at an opening to a small chamber the caretakers had not known about until the ghost of Beryl Spencer had led Karigan to it. A hidden trigger had caused a section of wall to slide open, revealing the chamber.

Since Karigan had last seen it, it had been tidied and lit by the caretakers, centuries of cobwebs and dust cleaned away. If there was one thing they could not abide, it was untidy tombs.

“Agemon has proposed installing marble flooring, hangings, and other decor,” Donal said, his deep bass voice startling Karigan. She’d almost forgotten the Weapons were with them, so silent were they.

In the chamber’s current state, the walls and floor were of natural stone, much like a cavern.

“I don’t know,” Zachary replied. “I think retaining its primitive appearance is appropriate for the age of this tomb.”

A tomb it was for Anschilde Sealender, an early chieftain of that line. His bones lay within a crude wooden box that sat upon a boulder. The dragonfly device, the shield, leaned against the boulder. Exactly what Zachary hoped to learn by coming to this place she couldn’t guess, but she understood his need to puzzle out the shield’s mystery.

Faded, chipped paint revealed the device of a flying, flaming dragon on it. It was clearer to see without all the dust and cobwebs clinging to it.

“How do you suppose it works?” Zachary asked.

The legend was that Anschilde had used it to repel the sea kings who had marauded and brutally fought to possess the lands of the Sacor Clans, especially the coastline. Ostensibly the shield also repelled the dragons.

“I’ve no idea,” Karigan said. “Perhaps it was simply used like a regular shield and legend made it something bigger than it was.”

He lifted the wooden shield to examine it more closely. It looked like there had once been leather arm straps, but those had rotted away with time.

“It was once sturdy,” he said, “and has preserved well despite its great age, but it still isn’t what it was when it was made. I do not think it would hold up long in a fight, much less against dragons. If the legend is true that Anschilde sent away the sea kings and their dragons with this shield, there must be some magic in it. Might Rider Duff be able to detect it?”

“I think his ability is more along the lines of seeing magic in people, not objects.” And it was a good thing or Fergal would spend even more time getting sick every time he saw something magical, the cost of using his special ability.

Zachary scrutinized the shield front and back. “Do you sense anything about it?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“If it were truly magical, it seems like there should be something obvious, but maybe the legend is just a legend.” He carefully replaced the shield against the boulder. Someone cleared their throat. “Did one of you say something?” he asked his Weapons.

“No, sire,” Donal replied.

The others also denied speaking.

“I could have sworn . . .” Zachary shook his head.

“I thought I heard someone clear their throat,” Karigan told him, “but that’s all.”

Zachary looked about. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard whispers or murmuring in these halls. These tombs are enough to make one fancy they’ve heard or seen all kinds of things.”

Karigan could not agree more. It did not matter how much she dealt with ghosts, the place was unsettling.

“As for the shield,” Zachary said, “I’ll ask Agemon to reinforce the wood and attach new straps.”

As if simply mentioning his name was a summons, the chief caretaker seemed to appear from nowhere and hurried toward them. He was, as usual, attired in robes of muted whites and grays, his pale face and long gray hair ever unchanged.

“Your Majesty has come to look at the shield again?” Agemon asked. He adjusted the specs perched on the end of his nose. “And you’ve brought this green with you this time.”

“This green” was typically how he referred to Karigan. Her presence in the tombs was anathema to him because he did not believe she should be allowed to enter, and once entered, she should not be allowed to leave. She was neither Sacoridian royalty nor a Weapon. An honorary Weapon, yes, but not a full Weapon, which in Agemon’s world made her status dubious at best. She wasn’t even dead. By the rules that governed the tombs, she should have been made a caretaker forced to live the rest of her life in the tombs never to see the living sun again. Interlopers, though few, were not permitted to leave, and the caretakers spent all their lives tending the royal dead and the realm’s great heroes, never stepping above ground or seeing the sky, or feeling an open breeze upon their faces.

“Yes, we have,” Zachary replied.

“Fine, fine.” Belatedly Agemon remembered to bow. “A load of stones has been dumped in one of our workshops.”

“Ah, the light stones.” Zachary reached into his pocket and produced the one he’d shown Karigan earlier.

Agemon squawked and shielded his eyes. “No, no. We must not see the light of the sun. This you know, my lord. The stones must be removed from this sacred place.”

“The light of the sun? I think there is a misunderstanding,” Zachary replied. “These stones come from deep underground and are naturally luminous. Exposure to the sun can make them glow more brightly, yes, but it is not necessary. Those brought into your workshop have not been exposed to the sun.”

Agemon slowly lowered his hands and blinked like an owl. “They come from underground? No sun?”

“Yes.”

“It is acceptable, then, but . . .”

“Yes?”

“My wife will insist upon having several.”

He had a wife? Karigan tried to imagine the idea of Agemon married. It had never occurred to her that he might be. Whoever she was, she must be incredibly patient.

“And you.” He waggled his finger at her.

Karigan stilled at his sudden attention and wondered what she had done to offend him this time besides being a green in his tombs.

“Your head is done.”

“My . . . ?”

Zachary cast her a questioning look.

“Yes, yes, your head,” Agemon replied. “The one you demanded we take care of.”

“Your head?” Zachary asked, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, gods,” she muttered. She’d done a very good job of forgetting about it. “We haven’t gotten the colonel back yet,” she told Agemon. “Do you suppose you could hold on to it until then?”

“An ugly countenance it is,” Agemon grumbled. “But yes, yes, we will hold on to it.”

“What head?” Zachary demanded. “And what has Laren to do with it?”

The Weapons watched the exchange with interest.

“Torq’s,” she replied in a small voice.

“Torq? You brought Torq’s head to Agemon?”

“Um, yes?”

“Why was I not informed?”

“It, uh, never came up.” Torq, the leader of the Darrow Raiders, had been a great enemy of Colonel Mapstone’s. Karigan had bested him after the Battle of the Sleeping Waelds and taken his head to be preserved so she could present it to the colonel, to satisfy her that he who had done her so much harm was truly dead. Thinking about it, however, she wasn’t sure what had possessed her.

Zachary looked incredulous. Then he laughed. It echoed through the somber halls. “You kept his head for Laren?”

She nodded.

He had trouble containing himself. “That is . . . That is quite a gift. I can’t wait to see her face.” He laughed some more, and she couldn’t help but smile for she had rarely seen him so amused. “Just when I think I know you, my lady, you surprise me yet again.”

“I would not wish to bore you.”

“It is not possible,” he said, “whether you’ve stuck an ax in the ceiling or have a gift head in the offing.” He laughed more quietly and added, “No, never boring.” There was tenderness in his voice. He gazed at her, and she gazed back, her pulse quickening.

Agemon cleared his throat, startling them for they had forgotten his existence.

“Yes, yes,” he murmured, watching them through his specs. “I will put the head aside until the colonel returns, but then it must be gone.” He bowed and went on his way, muttering to himself.

“I guess we are done here,” Zachary said with a final glance at the shield. “Shall we return to the realm of the living?”

“Yes, please,” she replied.

As they walked through the Sealender crypt, Zachary was decidedly close to her, his hands clasped behind his back. He leaned toward her and asked, “Is collecting heads going to be a regular thing with you?”

This time she laughed in surprise. “I sincerely hope not.”

Despite the setting, being with him in his light mood uplifted her own spirits. She felt almost as if she could float Meganlike to the ceiling. However, when they entered the main avenue of the Halls of Kings and Queens, a shadow stood by a near column, her darker self, watching as they walked by, a reminder of the ruthlessness that had led her to saw off Torq’s head and carry it back to the castle, and of what she could become if she should so wish.

MADDIE’S SURPRISE

Darys pushed the wheelbarrow back into Rider stables to begin work on mucking out another stall. He would much prefer hunting on such a fine day in the thatch of woods and fields that surrounded his family’s small homestead. Deer or grouse, or even a moose, it didn’t matter. It was about being outside with the smell of fir in the air, the crunch of twigs and leaves underfoot, and being alone with his own thoughts.

But it was not to be. Shoveling out soiled straw was now his life, and it was a never-ending chore. All these horses ever did was eat and drink and redistribute their food and water onto their bedding.

He glanced over his shoulder out the stables’ open doorway that led to paddock and pasture. Autumn sunlight blinded him and he blinked. He’d not had anymore encounters with the horse ghost, or whatever it was, which was an immense relief. And yet, he’d sensed a watchfulness around the place, a presence beyond his ken. He shuddered.

He parked the wheelbarrow in front of Gull’s stall. Currently the gelding frolicked in the pasture with his fellows. Darys was about to step into the stall when he noticed a Rider standing in the central aisle. Just standing there and staring into space.

“Rider?” he said. “Something I can help you with?”

When he received no reply, he approached her. It was Rider Sophina Blackmill. She was the daughter of some lord or other, he’d heard, and he hesitated.

“Rider, are you all right?” When she still did not reply, he licked his lips and stepped closer. “Rider?”

She looked right at him, and through him, her eyes wide and unblinking. Without warning she grabbed bunches of his jacket and pulled him close.

“Whaaa—?”

“She will fall through the heavens,” she said.

He started to laugh at such a nonsensical statement, but when he saw how her eyes seemed to see nothing but everything at the same time, he hesitated.

“She will fall and fall and fall.” Her tone lacked its usual aristocratic inflection. In fact, it was totally flat.

“Rider, are you—”

“Death’s knight will fail.”

This was not at all like her. Maybe it was a joke, but it wasn’t a good one.

“Death’s knight must— No, no . . . His heart.” She shook Darys hard.

“What?” he squeaked.

“She is unprotected, for Death lacks his. . . . ”

“Lacks his what?” Darys whispered.

She stood there trancelike until finally she blinked as if awakening from a long sleep. She let go his jacket and wobbled.

He caught her shoulders to keep her from falling. “Rider?”

“What am I . . . ?” Her words and gaze turned crisp. “Unhand me at once.”

Darys did and stepped back. She may be a Rider, but it wasn’t a good idea to get on the wrong side of a noble.

“You were having a spell or something,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You have no right to grab me in that manner, stableboy.” She turned on her heel and strode away.

“I’m sorry, but I thought you would fall,” he called after her, but she was already gone. Fine. Next time he’d just let her fall.

He shrugged and took up his shovel once again. Was this one of the oddities among the Riders his uncle had warned him about, or some sort of malady she suffered? Whichever it was, it had been strange. Very strange. Death’s knight? He chuckled nervously to himself over the absurdity of it all. He’d mention it to Uncle Hep later. In the meantime, he’d work to do.

• • •

Later, he sat on a bench taking a rest break and eating a biscuit his aunt had packed for him. Ham, the tabby barn cat, curled up beside him. Ham seemed to spend more time loafing around than hunting mice. Darys swallowed the last of the biscuit when he noticed Chief Rider Tegan Oldbrine standing in the stable entrance. She strode inside, peering into stalls, gazing at the rafters, and poking into corners. It looked like she was about to climb the ladder into the loft.

“Uh, something I can help you with, Chief Rider?” he asked.

“Have you seen Hoff?”

“No, ma’am. No one’s been through here in the last hour or so.”

“Well, if you do see him, could you remind him he’s due at arms training?”

“Aye.”

After she left, he leaned back against the wall. Ham purred loudly beside him. To his astonishment, some bales of hay across the way turned into Hoff in a crouch. There was now no hay, just the lad. Darys rubbed his eyes.

Hoff rose and dusted off his knees. “Hey, you got anymore of those biscuits?”

“Uh, no.”

“Aw, too bad.”

“How did you . . . ?” Darys began.

“Don’t tell the Chief you saw me,” Hoff said, and he moved warily down the aisle to the open doors and looked both ways before stealthily stepping outside and out of sight.

“What the hells did I just see?” Darys asked himself. He inspected the spot where the hay bales had turned into Hoff. There was not a stray bit of hay to be seen. He scratched his head. “I really want to go back to the woods.” Back home in the woods, hay bales didn’t turn into lads.

• • •

He knelt in Gull’s stall to examine damage the gelding had inflicted on the wall. In his enthusiasm for the evening feed, he’d kicked and splintered the wood. Presently he watched over Darys’ shoulder as if inspecting what he’d done, too. For all Darys knew, that was exactly what he was doing. Ham balanced on the stall door and meowed his opinion. The damage wasn’t too bad, so he wouldn’t have to do an emergency repair. It could wait until tomorrow.

He heard voices as he stood. One unmistakably belonged to Rider Notman whose voice tended to carry, and who always seemed to be complaining about one thing or another. The other was softer spoken and when he peered around the cat to get a better view, he saw it was Anna Ash.

“I’m telling you,” Megan said, pausing by her horse’s stall, “I am getting sick of it.”

It was not uncommon for the Riders to visit their horses periodically through the day, and Megan rubbed her mare’s nose.

Anna made some noncommittal reply before Megan once again began to prattle on. “It’s always, Megan, can you reach that for me? Megan, can you fetch that book on the top shelf? Megan, can you squash that spider on the ceiling? First of all, I don’t touch spiders.” She visibly shuddered. “Second, it’s like they’ve never heard of a ladder.”

Wait, Darys thought. So she could reach where others needed ladders? How? She was not very tall.

“I mean,” Megan continued, “do they even realize what they’re asking me, what it does to me? I get tired of fainting.”

Fainting?

“I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad if Fergal were there to catch me, but Hoff? He has such bad breath.” She shook her head of perfectly curled hair. She murmured something about Fergal being so cute. “It’s not like they all don’t understand what it’s like to use their abilities.”

It was a strange, mostly one-sided conversation, and something about it was making Anna look distinctly sad. Gull stuck his head over the stall door to join him and Ham in their eavesdropping.

“I am telling you,” Megan continued, “floating is not all it’s cracked up to be when people are constantly demanding I get something for them that’s out of their reach.”

Floating?

“You’ve got to tell them no,” Anna said. “They’re just being lazy.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like anyone asks the lieutenant to light a candle.”

Darys was trying to understand the nonsensical conversation when he realized Anna was gazing right at him. She’d caught him eavesdropping with the horse and cat over the stall door.

Megan was chattering on about floating when Anna cleared her throat and nodded in Darys’ direction. When Megan didn’t take the hint, Anna loudly said, “Hi, Dare.”

Megan went silent, followed Anna’s gaze, and an expression of mortification crossed her face. “Uh . . .”

He blushed in return at having been caught listening to their conversation.

“You didn’t hear any of that, did you?” Megan asked.

“Well . . .”

Anna moved to Maddie’s stall to check on her horse, her attention, however, still focused on Darys.

“I mean I was just joking,” Megan said, “about the floating and stuff. It’s all a story. Right, Anna?”

But Anna’s attention had turned to her horse and she stood like a statue staring transfixed at her. Suddenly she cried out and stumbled backward.

“What is it?” Darys asked. He struggled to unbolt Gull’s stall door. “Did she bite you?” Maddie would take a hunk of meat out of anyone who got too close and wasn’t paying attention.

Anna looked at him, her face ghastly pale. She pointed at Maddie. “How?” she asked with a shaky voice. “How did she get her eye back?”

THE MYSTERY OF MADDIE’S EYE

Maddie the mare watched with two eyes as the group of important people discussed her. Captain Connly, Lieutenant Brennyn, Chief Rider Oldbrine, Horse Master Riggs, Uncle Hep, and the two Rider menders stood in a circle in front of her stall. Darys chose to hang back, shovel in hand, to keep out of their way. Anna stood with him watching the proceedings with an anxious expression.

“I swear,” said Rider Mason Harding, who was also an animal mender, “I had nothing to do with it.”

“Me, either,” Ben Simeon, a Rider and mender of humans, chimed in.

“Horses don’t just grow new eyes,” Lieutenant Brennyn said. “Clearly some magic or something is at work here.”

“And on just Maddie,” Horse Master Riggs said. “We checked all the others.”

“Mason,” Captain Connly said, “can you sense anything different about her?”

Mason cautiously approached Maddie. She flattened her ears for a moment but allowed him to lay his hands on her neck. To be honest, she seemed to be enjoying the attention. Mason closed his eyes and fell into deep concentration.

“I don’t understand any of this,” Darys whispered to Anna. “What’s he doing? Do Riders have . . . magic?”

She gave him a quick glance. Apparently the initial shock of Maddie’s new eye had worn off. “Not all,” she whispered back, and he saw that sadness in her gaze again. “But most. You are not to speak of it.”

He reckoned his uncle would lecture him about it. Magic explained a lot of what he’d seen, but he’d been taught that it was evil and it sent a trickle of fear through him. These Riders he’d been spending time with possessed magic and they didn’t seem to be evil. He glanced sidelong at her and wondered if she had the power to change him into a toad or something like that as she saw fit, but all he could see was the same old Anna who had been kind to him since his arrival. Surely the king would not use the Riders as his trusted messengers unless he was in fact evil himself, but Darys had never seen evidence of that in the realm. According to his da, King Zachary was a fair and just ruler.

The moon priests, however, taught that evil often came in the guise of beneficent and seemingly wise persons. He shook himself. Of course the Riders weren’t evil. Of course King Zachary was a fair and just ruler just as his da said. He liked to think that if they were evil, he’d know it.

Mason stepped away from Maddie. “She is perfectly healthy with an entirely normal pair of horse eyes.” He sounded weary. “I detected no magic about, though I’m not sure I would have, anyway. Gonna sit down now.”

“Why is he sitting down?” Darys asked Anna.

“Using an ability is hard work,” she replied. “Now, hush.”

“I don’t recall noticing her having a new eye this morning,” Uncle Hep said. “I just try to avoid her teeth and hooves.”

“Anna?” Captain Connly said. “You didn’t see anything earlier?”

“No, sir,” she replied. “I didn’t get to see her till this afternoon. Last night she had only the one eye.”

“Darys,” Uncle Hep said, “you’ve been here all day.”

He stiffened when the important people all turned to him. “She was in the pasture most of the day. When I brought the horses in, I didn’t notice her eye, but then I wasn’t looking.”

“This is certainly a mystery,” Horse Master Riggs said, her hands on her hips. “Something is afoot, but it doesn’t seem malicious.”

Uncle Hep smoothed back his hair, his hand shaking. He seemed nervous, which was strange because Darys had never seen him nervous.

“I have to tell you,” his uncle said, “there has been something hanging around the pasture. Darys and I, we’ve sensed it, as have the other grooms. Darys thinks it’s a ghost horse.”

“You do?” Anna whispered.

Darys shrugged.

“And Master Riggs is right,” Uncle Hep continued. “It doesn’t seem malicious, but maybe . . . mischievous?”

“Is it something to do with the Eletians?” Lieutenant Brennyn asked.

“Don’t think so. It started before the Eletians showed up.”

“Gods above,” Captain Connly muttered, as if a supernatural something were an irritation rather than, well, a supernatural something. “Why didn’t you tell me, Hep?”

“I was going to, but I kind of wanted to make sure it wasn’t my imagination.”

Captain Connly shook his head. “I guess there’s not much we can do about it until this presence makes itself known. In the meantime, we keep a close watch on Maddie and all the horses. Tell me immediately if you notice anything unusual.”

“Aye, Captain,” Uncle Hep said.

“Anna,” Horse Master Riggs said, “looks like we’ll be doing some additional training. I don’t know how long Maddie was without her eye, but now she needs to grow accustomed to having both.”

Apparently having become bored with the human chitchat, the subject of their meeting turned in her stall to lip after stray bits of hay.

“Yes’m,” Anna replied. She made a quiet groaning sound.

“What is it?” Darys asked.

“I hope this doesn’t cause me as many bruises as the first time we trained.”

Darys watched as the meeting broke up, though his uncle stood in hushed conversation with Master Riggs. Anna went to Maddie’s stall and seemed reluctant to look in as if maybe the mare had grown scales or horns.

After the day Darys had had, he wouldn’t be surprised if she turned into a dragon.

“And then when we were walking back,” Tegan was telling Karigan, “Connly said he was surprised you weren’t in the middle of this.”

Tegan sat in Karigan’s chamber reiterating the discovery of Maddie’s new eye as Karigan folded freshly laundered uniform parts on her bed. She grabbed a sock from Ghost Kitty’s claws. He crouched on her pillow and whacked his tail against the headboard.

“He said that, did he?”

Tegan nodded.

“Hmm, well, he’s been irritated with me ever since the colonel was abducted.”

“You must admit,” Tegan said, “a ghost horse, or whatever it is, is the kind of thing you deal with.”

Karigan smoothed a white linen shirt across the foot of her bed. It did sound like something that would involve her, but she was extremely glad that for once it had nothing to do with her. And Maddie having her eye restored? That was a good thing, wasn’t it? She paused and wondered if whatever was at work could restore her own eye back to normal. Thinking of it caused a stabbing pain in it. Mostly she was accustomed to the irritation and dull aching she must live with. Ben gave her a salve to ease the pain, but it never truly went away.

“I, for one,” she said, folding the arms of the shirt, “am glad for Anna and Maddie however it happened.” She hummed under her breath, off key, of course, as she set the shirt onto a neat stack of folded clothes and reached for the next.

“You’re in an uncommonly good mood,” Tegan observed.

Karigan paused. “Uncommonly?”

“Yes. You seem lighter. It’s understandable with all you’ve been through that you’d be a little dour now and then.”

Karigan turned to her. “Dour?”

Tegan did not back down but nodded. “Like I said, it’s understandable.”

“Dour? Really?”

Tegan shrugged. “At least I didn’t call you Rider Crotchety.”

Karigan was about to retort when Ghost Kitty pounced on her freshly folded clothes. “Hey!” She scooped him up and dumped him on the floor.

“So how was your day?” Tegan asked. “Must have been a good one.”

“Well . . .” Karigan told her about her meeting with the Eletians.

“I want to see this longcoat,” Tegan said, “but I still think the gown—”

Karigan threw a sock roll at her. It bounced off her head.

“All right, all right. I take the hint.”

Karigan continued telling Tegan about her day, about how Zachary sent for her to meet him in the tombs. Tegan listened with a penetrating gaze.

“What?” Karigan demanded. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“The king wanted to see you?”

Karigan squinted at her friend, wondering what she was implying. She had a feeling she knew. “He wanted to look at the shield, the dragonfly device.”

“He needed you for that?”

Karigan crossed her arms. She hadn’t yet rolled up anymore socks to throw at Tegan. “Apparently he wanted to know if I could see how it was supposed to work. What are you getting at?”

“Anyone close to you with eyes and a heart can tell . . .” Tegan faltered. “There is a long-standing attraction between the two of you. Are you sure he just wanted you to attend him to look at that old shield?”

Karigan’s mouth dropped open. She decisively snapped it shut. “Of all the absurdities. Agemon was there, not to mention four Weapons.” She resumed folding a pair of trousers with a fury, her cheeks burning.

“I’m not suggesting anything untoward,” Tegan said. “It’s actually kind of sweet.”

“We were in the tombs,” Karigan said, “with graves and dead people and stuff. You are reading too much into whatever it is you think you know.” The lie came across lamely.

“Don’t worry,” Tegan said. “We are discreet and it won’t go beyond us.”

“We?”

“Just the colonel originally, and Mara. Then I picked up on it. We’ve been aware of it for at least a couple years. Connly suspects but we don’t discuss it with him. Anna is pretty sharp, too.”

Karigan sat hard on her bed, causing the frame to creak and her stack of folded clothes to topple over. She did not know what to say.

“For what it’s worth,” Tegan said, “I’m sorry. It’s a difficult situation, him being the king and married. If you ever need to talk, seek me out, or Mara. And be careful with the court. It would give those bored aristocrats nothing better to gossip about, which could be a disaster for the king’s authority.”

Karigan had been in a good mood, but now Tegan’s warning, as well intentioned as it was, brought her back down to Earth. She’d enjoyed being in Zachary’s company, tombs or not. They had not, for once, been in the midst of some crisis. Their conversation had been light and natural. They’d even jested. It had been easy to forget the concerns of the world and the possible consequences of being with him. And while she wished to tell Tegan all about it, about Estora’s permission, Tegan reminded her about discretion, even with a friend who knew there was something there.

Tegan wisely took her leave. Karigan sat amid her laundry, wondering how many “suspected,” how many tongues wagged about King Zachary and his Green Rider.

Her darker self leaned against her wardrobe. He could be yours in every way, she said. Who cares what anyone else thinks? He would protect you. He already does. You just need to take him.

Her darker self, she knew, wished to exert herself and be foremost, to take what she wanted. To “take” Zachary would require cunning and deceit, but it was not who Karigan was, or who she wanted to be.

You are thinking it, Dark Karigan said, therefore some part of you wants it. I am here when you are ready.

“Begone!” Karigan cried, and her shadow self vanished.

She dropped her face into her hands. She could not fall for temptation; to do so would not merely be scandalous, but it could destabilize Zachary’s rule when the realm most needed unity with the rising tide of darkness.

The afternoon she had spent with him no longer seemed a light enjoyable excursion, but terribly reckless.

We can’t do this anymore, she thought, no matter what Estora says. No matter what I feel.

THE SENDING

Feast of Vendane had finally arrived, a time when Sacoridians gathered together for harvest festivals and feasting. For Karigan, it meant attending Queen Estora’s ball in the evening. Before then, however, she and Mara had time to exercise their horses. While Mara saddled Firefly, Condor impatiently lipped Karigan’s hair and then shook his head, the metal of his bridle jingling. He was eager for a run.

“Stop pouting,” Mara told her as she tightened Firefly’s girth. “We exercise on the west side parade grounds all the time.”

“Exactly,” Karigan replied. “I’m tired of it. Condor and I want out.” What she’d really wanted was a ride out to the Scangly Mounds, unconfined with the freedom for Condor to really stretch his legs. To run for the joy of it. However, Zachary’s prohibition that she not leave the city made it impossible.

“I know you do,” Mara said, “but orders. Besides, Tegan is predicting an imminent snowstorm.”

They led the horses out of Rider stables and mounted. Condor danced in place ready to go.

“Settle,” Karigan told him.

“Ready, Rider Pouty?”

Karigan stuck her tongue out at Mara, who chuckled.

They set off on the track that would lead from Rider stables past the front entry of the castle, to where the west side parade grounds were located. Condor continued to dance like a three-year-old at his first Day of Aeryon race.

“It’s the wind,” Mara said, “tickling him.”

In contrast, Firefly looked almost bored, but the farther they got from stables, the more he perked up.

“I wouldn’t mind getting out of the city myself,” Mara said, “but I’ve too much to do.”

The difference, Karigan thought, was that Mara was free to leave if she decided to set those duties aside and go. She wasn’t prohibited from leaving.

“Probably we could both use a pint at the Cock and Hen,” Mara reflected. “And the book shop. Maybe not in that order.”

On this point Karigan could not disagree. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d read a book or indulged in a pint of good bitter ale.

A dense ceiling of clouds hung low over the castle turrets and the city. She didn’t need Tegan’s weather sensing ability to know snow was on the way for she could smell it, the fresh, cold influx of air that preceded precipitation.

As they passed the front entrance of the castle, she spied a couple Weapons in seemingly casual conversation—Erin and Travis. Travis’ gaze seemed to track her as she rode by. Perhaps it was her suspicious mind, but might he be keeping an eye on her to ensure she did not try to escape?

When they reached the parade grounds they found two members of the heavy cavalry exercising their great war steeds, but they soon left. Condor snorted and pawed, so ready to run that at last she gave him his head. They tore off across the parade grounds and she laughed, the cold air whipping her cheeks raw. Flurries began to fall, and she and Mara delighted in racing their steeds through wisping squalls.

After a time they walked the horses to rest them, though the geldings seemed to be having as much fun in the falling snow as their Riders.

“Can barely see the castle,” Mara said.

The walls and towers faded away behind the squall, like a curtain pulled across their vision. The snow melted when it hit the ground, but that wouldn’t last for long.

“Are you ready for the harvest ball tonight?” Mara asked.

Karigan brushed snow off her sleeves. “Maybe it should be called the snow ball.”

Mara laughed at that.

“But yes,” Karigan continued, “I suppose I am ready.” In truth, it was like steeling herself for battle. The Eletians would return in the evening with the longcoat and they would proceed to the ball together. How many and which Eletians, she did not know.

“I am sure you’ll do us proud,” Mara said.

“I don’t know about that. I haven’t danced since . . .” She frowned.

“Mad Queen Oddacious?”

She nodded. “Yes, the masquerade ball.” It was a good thing she had been masked, for she had worn an outrageous costume borrowed from a theater friend of Tegan’s, and it had been completely out of step with the more refined and elegant costumes of the nobles. Many of them had thought her part of the entertainment. Those who attended seemed to remember Queen Oddacious more than the assassination attempt on Zachary.

“Did anyone ever figure out who came as the mad queen?” Mara asked.

“You mean, besides the Riders? I have no idea.” She hoped not. The costume had been a debacle.

“Let’s hope your experience tonight is more pleasant,” Mara said, “and nothing untoward happens.” She smiled and wheeled Firefly away to work him in a large circle.

Karigan thought back to her first ball at the castle. She’d been made to attend as a Green Rider after a harrowing cross-country ride pursued by brigands that had been involved in a plot to usurp Zachary’s throne. She hadn’t even been a real Green Rider at the time. Her experience at the ball had not been a comfortable one, thrust as she was among all those nobles and her king. Her king who had stirred such dangerous feelings in her even back then. She had danced with Alton, and Shawdell the Eletian who was soon unveiled as the mysterious Gray One. It was he who had broken the D’Yer Wall and helped to carry out the plan to usurp Zachary’s throne. He was the son of Eletia’s crown prince, Jametari, which, with her adoption by King Santanara, made Shawdell her nephew. Such a strange thought.

She nudged Condor into a trot and followed the perimeter of the parade ground. Livestock that had been grazed here over the summer during the war with Second Empire had been moved out to their usual wintering grounds. Snow was now beginning to cover the hoof-pocked earth. She could barely make out Mara and Firefly at the opposite end of the parade grounds. The air was dense with snow and it mounded on Condor’s head and neck. It was a bit silly of them to be out in this weather, but it was also kind of fun.

The wind charged in from the north and took her breath. It whooshed across the open ground and pushed the snow sideways.

More like Night of Aeryc than Feast of Vendane, she thought.

There was the prickle of snowflakes on her cheeks and she thought she heard a whisper on the wind, but she was probably imagining it. The snow whirled and coiled around her.

Kari-gan . . . came a distant whisper on the north wind.

No, she couldn’t dismiss it a second time.

Whorls of snow and gusts sculpted the figure of a woman before her. Steady, experienced Condor actually shied away. In but a moment, the wind settled and the figure fell apart. Its individual snowflake crystals drifted away and blended into the flurrying snow. It was enough, however, for Karigan to grasp who and what she was dealing with.

“Nari?” she said.

Greetings from the north, came the whisper.

Karigan smiled. Nari, once an Eletian, had taken on the form of an ice elemental at the defeat of the aureas slee, and became the aureas narivannis.

“It is good to see you.” All of this weather was Nari’s doing, then.

Kari-gan, a sending . . .

“A what?”

Her only answer was the wind and snow pelting into her face.

“Nari—” she gasped.

Kari-gan, a sending . . .

Out of the squall emerged the ghostly form of a large bird, silent wings pummeling through the snow, the wind buffeting its flight to and fro so that it must fight to maintain its course. The winter owl.

A sending . . . came Nari’s fading whisper.

The wind abruptly died and the owl glided overhead with ease. Karigan watched as it flew away, snow pattering on her upturned face. Had Nari meant the owl was a sending? But out of the fog of fat snowflakes drifted a white feather that alighted on her face.

A feather of the winter owl.

Karigan clutched it to her breast. “Thank you,” she murmured, and the squall slackened to a gentle flurry.

Mara trotted up, shaking snow out of her hair and laughing. “That was fun,” she said, “but I’m getting a bit damp and cold. I think a hot bath is in order after we take care of these beasts.”

“Yes,” Karigan replied. She carefully tucked the feather into an inner pocket of her greatcoat.

“What’s that you got?” Mara asked.

When Karigan explained, Mara frowned.

“That seems a little too specific for coincidence,” Mara said.

“It’s not. The aureas narivannis sent the owl.”

“Why am I not surprised? Just when I thought things might be getting back to normal for you.”

“What’s normal?”

“It appears to be ice elementals sending you winter owls and feathers.”

“At least Firefly and Condor haven’t grown new eyeballs.”

Mara laughed. “That’s true. Can you imagine having three-eyed horses?”

As they reined their horses around to head toward stables, they were hit by such a powerful gust the horses staggered sideways. The wind was frigid and carried not just snow, but stinging ice.

Be wary, Nari whispered, for darkness comes.

The wind settled as fast as it had risen.

“What was that?” Mara asked. “I thought I heard a voice.”

“More of my normal life,” Karigan replied with a tight smile. She told Mara of Nari’s warning.

“Huh,” Mara said. “Warnings are all fine and good, but it would be oh so much more helpful it they came with details. You know, like when and what.”

“No kidding,” Karigan muttered.

“I’ll pass the warning on to Connly,” Mara said, “and he can inform the king, but there’s not much we can do when it’s so vague but remain wary.”

They urged their horses in the direction of Rider stables and Karigan pondered Nari’s words: A darkness comes. There was no telling if it was a warning about the rise of Mornhavon and Blackveil, or something more immediate, but since it came from Nari, she knew she must take heed.

THE HARVEST BALL

OVERTURE

Motif

Karigan looked in satisfaction at her reflection in Tegan’s full-length mirror while Cenna hovered in the doorway. To her surprise, the Eletians had conjured up a white-gold waist sash to go with her new longcoat.

“Gorgeous,” Tegan said. “Much better than the gown.”

Karigan had to agree.

“You should wear your medals,” Tegan added.

“What?”

“Your medals. You are not just trying to look nice. For that crowd you need to have armor of a sort. Like wearing that gown to the merchants guild.”

“Ah, appearances.”

“Exactly.”

“What are these medals?” Cenna asked.

“Recognition of heroic deeds,” Tegan answered. “Karigan rescued Queen Estora back when she was betrothed to the king.”

“Ah, gifts of thanks,” Cenna said.

“Yes,” replied Tegan, “and marks of favor from important people.”

Zachary had presented Karigan with a medal that raised her to knight of the realm. The other had come from Estora’s father, the late lord-governor of Coutre Province. Each had granted her land that she left as yet unclaimed.

Tegan and Cenna followed Karigan back to her own chamber where Telagioth and Idris awaited.

“It is satisfactory?” Telagioth asked.

“Very,” Karigan replied.

“It shimmers,” Tegan said. “It’s lovely.”

The three Eletians looked pleased.

“She must have her medals,” Cenna said, and explained.

“Yes,” Telagioth agreed.

Karigan opened drawers of her desk, not remembering where exactly she’d stashed them. She hadn’t even looked at them since the day they’d been presented to her a few years previous.

One drawer had accumulated many objects that she pulled out—a ball of string, a box of pen nibs, handkerchiefs, and when she produced an oversized eagle’s feather, the Eletians instantly clustered around her and spoke excitedly in Eltish.

“How did you come by this?” Telagioth asked.

“It was given to me by a gray eagle named Ripaeria. She is my friend.” Sadly she hadn’t seen Ripaeria in months. Last she’d heard, the eagless was in trouble with her elders for extreme disobedience and confined to Snowcloud Eyrie’s territory around the Wingsong Mountains.

“It is, as your people would say,” Telagioth told her, “remarkable.”

She didn’t blame the Eletians for being impressed. She had been both impressed and touched to receive so lovely a gift. She hadn’t figured out how to properly honor it, however.

“This reminds me,” she said. She opened another drawer and withdrew the feather of the winter owl. “This came to me today.”

The Eletians practically vibrated with excitement and once again they reverted to Eltish among themselves.

“Do they always get so excited?” Tegan whispered.

Karigan shook her head.

“How did it come to you?” Telagioth asked.

Karigan told the story of the snowstorm and the visit by the aureas narivannis, and ended with the winter owl.

“Narivanine,” Telagioth murmured, using the long form of Nari’s Eletian name.

“And Graelalea,” Idris said.

“It is no wonder our king has adopted you when you are so favored,” Telagioth said.

“We must braid it into her hair,” Idris said.

They sat her down and Idris wove the feather into a single, delicate plait while Tegan continued the excavation to the bottom of the drawer, where she found the small wooden boxes containing the medals. She gazed at Karigan and smiled.

“I like the way the feather looks,” she said. She removed the medals from their boxes and placed them around Karigan’s neck, and passed her a hand mirror. “What do you think?”

Karigan’s mouth formed a straight line as she assessed her reflection with the feather braided into her otherwise loose hair. Her medals glinted against her chest and her new silver-green longcoat shimmered with the slightest movement.

“I think,” she said with a wry tone, “I look very symbolic.”

Undeterred by her seeming lack of enthusiasm, Tegan said, “Now for your sword.”

“I don’t think so.” Nobody wore a longsword to a ball, and her saber and its scabbard were too plain and beat up for the occasion.

When she explained the problem, Telagioth replied, “This is easily solved.” He unbuckled his own ornate swordbelt and offered it to her.

“What?” she said. “You can’t mean for me to wear yours.”

“I mean it exactly. It is perfect.” And he pressed it into her hands.

His was a smallsword, akin to an ornate court sword and well suited for a ball. The scabbard appeared to be crafted from the same gleaming pearlescent material as Eletian armor. When she drew the sword, she found the blade to be forged of bright steel and unscathed. It flared slightly near the point, and fine etchings of stylized birch leaves ornamented it just below the guard. She buckled the swordbelt over her sash and it seemed to fit well.

“Yes,” Telagioth said. “This completes it.”

“It does,” Tegan agreed.

Cenna and Idris chimed in with their approval.

Hmm, Karigan thought. It made her just a notch more Eletian than Sacoridian. It would be interesting to see how it went over with the Sacoridian nobles, and especially Zachary.

Ayre

Estora was pleased by the attendance to her ball. She had feared the sudden snowstorm earlier in the day would deter her guests, but fortunately it had been a brief maelstrom that had all but melted away. Now the orchestra played harmoniously and the dance floor was filled with dancers. It was the last such affair they’d be hosting until Night of Aeryc, and so the guests made every effort to attend and enjoy.

Except for one. Had Karigan decided not to come after all? She understood her friend’s reluctance, how she felt out of place at such engagements, but Estora was a little piqued by her absence. Considering her new status among the Eletians, she should—

The music faded and her ruminations were interrupted by Neff the herald’s voice ringing out. “Rider Sir Karigan G’ladheon of Clan G’ladheon, the Lady Winterlight of the House of Santanara, Dama Cearing Asai’riel a’ Santanara a’ Eletia.”

Karigan stood on the stair gazing out upon the crowd, her hand casually resting on the hilt of a clearly Eletian sword. A feather in her hair lifted with the air currents, and she wore a longcoat of silver-green not made by Sacoridian hands. With these details and the way the light glimmered upon her, she looked regal of bearing.

Excitement rippled through the guests, soft murmurs of surprise and intrigue for this Green Rider who was more than a Green Rider. She overheard commentary that ran the gamut from admiration to cynicism. Cynicism because many aristocrats had little more to do with their time than play gossip and cast negative judgment on all others, as if it made them better than anyone else. Several also speculated over whether this odd combination of Sacoridian and Eletian would prove a useful asset to their personal machinations in court, or a hindrance.

One man, she knew, had very different thoughts, and she glanced at her husband to see how he watched Karigan enraptured, his eyes taking in every movement she made, his lips slightly parted, a goblet of wine held forgotten in his hand.

True heart mates, Estora thought. There was no denying it. Many scoffed at such romantic notions as fantasy. They did not understand as she understood that a true heart mate was not simple romance, but an inextricable bond between two souls so perfectly matched that it went beyond any level of ordinary love known. No matter how much they resisted, whether out of honor or some other reason, their souls were harmony and melody. If they continued their ridiculous hesitation to answer that attraction, it would break them. This she knew, for she had experienced it herself with her lost love, F’ryan Coblebay, and she wondered if there was something about the aura of Green Riders that fostered such intense love.

She’d done the right thing by freeing them to be together even if they were too exasperatingly stubborn to move forward. So much honor and bullheadedness in them both. They certainly deserved one another.

Zachary was a good and generous husband who showed her respect and affection for all that he did not love her. Theirs was more a partnership aligned with governing the realm to its best advantage. Once she had accepted it, it no longer hurt, and because she loved them both, she wished them only happiness. Remaining queen was an unfortunate necessity to retain the allegiance of the eastern lord-governors. If they fell away from Zachary, the result would be devastating civil war with the lord-governors fighting for autonomy and the opportunity to be the kings of their own petty realms.

The intensity of Zachary’s regard for Karigan rolled off him like a wave of heat even as others responded to her appearance. Karigan paused but a moment on the landing, then trotted down the stairs, her beautiful coat flowing about her waist, when so many others would have dragged out their entrance to preen and show off. Karigan surpassed them by not engaging in such puerile behavior, instead presenting a confident and unaffected demeanor. It was ironic that she, by trying not to draw attention to herself, only drew more interest.

No longer the runaway schoolgirl, nor merely a merchant’s daughter, she had matured into a woman uniquely her own. Estora knew the truth that Karigan would always question herself and that maybe she wasn’t quite as self-assured as she came across, but the others did not know her as she did. And Karigan had no idea the effect she had on others.

In fact, Estora’s attention had been so fixed on Karigan that she missed the introduction of the Eletians, and that was saying something.

“Would you care to dance, my queen?” Zachary asked as the music started again.

Estora was delighted and took his hand. He was very attentive and smiled at her as he guided her around the dance floor, but not nearly with the heat with which he had gazed at Karigan.

“Are you pleased Karigan came?” she asked him.

“I am pleased to see her though I know such gatherings are not to her liking.”

Estora nodded, relieved he had not tried to conceal how he felt.

“Now about puppies for Ez and Dav,” he began.

She listened to him about how beneficial it was for children to grow up with four-legged companions. She smiled, happy that her children had so devoted a father. She must get Karigan to visit with them, to become their friend. If Sacoridia was able to overcome Mornhavon the Black in its impending conflict, she believed they would very much need her. She dared not consider what the future would hold for her children and all of Sacoridia if Mornhavon prevailed.

THE HARVEST BALL

DOWNBEAT

Three Quarter Time

Karigan paused with her Eletian escorts at the top of the stairs that led down into the ballroom to take in the scene below. Couples whirled and glided beneath the golden light of the chandeliers to the music of the orchestra. The gowns of ladies swished and billowed with the swift and elegant steps of the dance.

“This is your first Sacoridian ball,” she said to Telagioth. “What do you think so far?”

“I like it already,” he replied. “I hear the music. I see the dancing.” He closed his eyes and moved his hand through the air to the rhythm of the waltz. An eager light shone in the faces of the others—Cenna, Idris, Lhean, Byrnin, and Enver, though Enver looked away when he caught her gazing at him.

Tonight she would pull him aside, she thought, and they’d have a little chat, and she would do so sooner rather than later as she intended to stay just long enough to appease Estora. She gazed back down into the ballroom. As pretty a scene as it was, she noted the extra guards around the room. Zachary had gotten her message about Nari’s warning.

“Dama,” Telagioth said, “shall we proceed?”

“Yes, of course.” Let’s get this over with.

On a landing about midway down the stairs, Neff the herald bowed to her and her companions. “Ah, Rider—I mean, my lady, we’ve been expecting you and your party. Please allow me to announce you.”

Hells, Karigan thought. She’d hoped to enter without fanfare, but she supposed it had been a futile wish when it came to an event of this magnitude where being noticed was everything.

As the music faded, Neff’s voice rang out: “Rider Sir Karigan G’ladheon of Clan G’ladheon, the Lady Winterlight of the House of Santanara, Dama Cearing Asai’riel a’ Santanara a’ Eletia.”

Karigan’s cheeks burned as many faces below turned to look her way. A murmur rose among the guests. She guessed it was more at the presence of actual Eletians rather than herself that caught their interest. After all, Eletians were still a rare sighting even in Sacor City, and very few had actually ever met one.

Neff introduced the Eletians each as lord or lady. When he finished, she trotted down the stairs, which was a rather inelegant way to make an entrance when most would have taken their time to glow in the attention and accolades for as long as possible before making a much more decorous descent. She wanted none of it.

The Eletians did not hasten after her, nor did they linger, but made their elegant way down the stairs in their own time. Many of the guests approached them to make their acquaintance so later, she presumed, they could boast about socializing with real Eletians.

Several gentlemen gazed at Karigan with a speculative gleam in their eyes. She was titled and landed, and they supposed the wealth of Clan G’ladheon would be a bonus to their own holdings. They must also wonder what sort of advantages a connection to the Eletian court would bring them. Conversely, there was the messenger uniform and the eyepatch and her common background. How they must weigh the advantages and disadvantages, she thought. For all there was more freedom for women in Sacoridia than other realms, some things never changed.

When one of the men worked up the courage to approach her, she pretended to see a friend in the distance, waved, and set off purposefully across the floor. The orchestra started playing again and the onlookers moved on. She took a deep breath in relief. Now she could regain her bearings. The ballroom was decorated with colorful autumn leaves, and carved pumpkins and gourds with candles flickering in them. Scarecrows stuffed with straw presided over the refreshment table.

While Feast of Vendane celebrated the harvest, there was a darker side to it. In years of plenty, it was said the god, Vendane, used a scythe to reap crops, but in years of famine, it was souls he harvested, and so the decor included scythes that had been hung on the walls. Skeletons also represented the famine side of the Feast of Vendane, and several, cunningly carved from wood, dangled from the ceiling. Their bones, wired at the joints, rattled in the air currents stirred by the passage of dancers.

Considering Sacoridia was experiencing a difficult harvest after its recent war with Second Empire and the Darrow Raiders, the decor proved an ominous reminder of how terrible their lot could be. However, the refreshment table, from a distance, appeared to overflow.

She sought out Zachary and spotted him sweeping around the dance floor with Estora. They moved gracefully together with an undeniable rapport, she gazing into his eyes. Estora was the golden beauty about whom minstrels sang, and Zachary, the noble king, returned her gaze. Helioness, goddess of love and fidelity, could not have created a more ideal vision of romantic love. It was as it should be, but she couldn’t help but feel disappointed it was not she who was in his arms.

The aristocratic guests seemed not to know what to make of her. The ladies, in particular, sized her up and whispered behind their gloved hands. They gave her a wide berth. Another gentleman boldly approached, and once again she pretended not to see him and strode away to where Lhean stood at the refreshment table. He hovered over a spread of chocolate delicacies.

“I am informed,” he told her, “the master of chocolate has received the desired goods in his latest shipment that has allowed chocolate to become plentiful once more.”

“That is good to hear,” she said, eyeing the Dragon Droppings. She popped one into her mouth and let it melt on her tongue. She closed her eyes in ecstasy.

“I still do not know,” Lhean said, “how it is that mortal humans conceived of such a delicacy so heartening to the Eletian spirit.”

“Chocolate is heartening to most humans, as well,” she replied, “if not in the same way. And though it may be hard to believe that a very flawed and short-lived people created chocolate, you may discover we are capable of a good many things.”

“So I am learning.” His face brightened. “This music and dancing is very pleasurable. Eletia has slept for far too long. It makes no sense for us to have hidden ourselves from the world as we have.”

She wasn’t sure what response she had been expecting, maybe defensiveness or some denigrating comment, but this wasn’t it. It pleased her that at least some Eletians were coming to understand humankind better.

While Lhean deliberated over all the chocolate that was available, she gazed about and saw that Byrnin and Cenna had found dance partners. They seemed to pick up the style quickly, but were far more graceful than their human partners. Telagioth meanwhile talked with Counselor Tallman off to the side. Idris gazed up at the skeletons with a perplexed expression. As for Enver? He stood against a far wall, trying to look inconspicuous, or so it seemed. She would have her talk with him right away, but just as she began to stride in his direction, a nobleman intercepted her.

• • •

Lead and Follow

Lord-Governor Hendry Penburn smiled at her.

“My lord,” she said in surprise, and nodded in deference.

“My lady,” he replied with a deep bow. “I was wondering if you might do me the honor of a dance.”

“Uh . . .” She looked past him and saw that a woman had coaxed Enver onto the dance floor.

“I promise not to step on your toes,” Lord Penburn said. “Should be a fun set.”

“I don’t—”

“Come now. You are a personage of interest to all in attendance and it will do your king and queen credit to see you on the floor.”

“My lord—”

“Call me Hendry.”

She wasn’t quite sure how he’d done it, but he’d maneuvered her onto the dance floor.

“It is to be a Basketweave Reel,” he said.

Dear gods, she was not prepared for this. She’d rather battle a mob of groundmites, and would probably acquit herself better. The Basketweave Reel featured a range of styles with fast and intricate steps that she had not danced since her early teens, and at family celebrations, not in a royal ballroom filled with those of the ruling class. There would be a lot of weaving patterns intersecting with other partners at high speed. And the reel tended to be long, a series of musical pieces with ever-changing tempos. One generally needed a bit of stamina to endure through to the end.

“I don’t know about this,” she said.

“Follow my lead and you’ll be fine,” he replied.

She wasn’t so sure about that.

Other participants were giddy with anticipation, many of them of marrying age and seeking to meet potential suitors. Balls and parties of this sort were prime spouse-hunting grounds. She gazed askance at Lord Penburn. She knew he’d found her to be of some interest, even if in passing. Now with her connection to King Santanara, she was sure she was even more interesting to him.

Just as the musicians finished retuning their instruments in preparation for the reel, Zachary led Estora back onto the floor. There was clapping and cries of delight from those who would be sharing the floor with their king and queen.

Lord Penburn took Karigan’s hand and wrapped his arm around her waist. When the music started, they were off at a mad pace. He was a good partner who ably led her through her first stumbling steps, and whose own finesse made up for her lack. They swooped and rotated, rose and fell with the music and spun in many a dizzying whirl. She remembered to gaze into his eyes to maintain her equilibrium.

They wove among the other couples in a clover leaf pattern, and while she simply tried to stay afoot and oriented, Lord Penburn smiled and seemed to enjoy himself. He wasn’t bad looking, and she liked him as much as one could like a lord-governor, which was something she couldn’t say about all nobles.

“So,” he said, not out of breath whatsoever, “have you ridden to Darden of late?”

She felt her own expression go flat at his reference to the notorious midnight ride she’d made prior to giving in to the Rider call. The rumor she’d done it in the nude seemed to be the foundation of his fascination with her, no matter how many times he’d been corrected.

“Perhaps you would consider visiting my country estate this summer,” he said. “It would be my honor to host you.”

“Um . . .” She was saved from having to answer by the dance master’s call to change partners. Penburn winked at her and she whirled away.

Rise and Fall

She swept past Zachary in the weave pattern to her new partner, a heavyset gentleman of middle age who, unlike Hendry Penburn, huffed and puffed and had gone red in his cheeks with the exertion of the dance. His hands were slick with sweat and she tried not to let her revulsion reflect on her face. He was having enough trouble with his own feet that, also unlike Lord Penburn, he could not help her with hers and they were both stumbling around.

“Ouch!” she cried when he stomped on her toe.

By now, however, she was getting the feel of the dance and decided to treat it like a sword training session with Arms Master Drent. She attacked the dance and the eyes of her hapless partner bulged as she took the lead and swung him around the dance floor. She kept her footwork lively enough to prevent more toe stomping, but he began to take on the quality of an anchor.

It felt like she dragged him around the floor for hours when the dance master at last called again to change partners. Lord Sweaty Hands looked relieved, and she whirled away to her next partner, a young lieutenant of the light cavalry impeccably outfitted in his formal uniform of blue adorned with a red sash and numerous medals glinting at high polish on his chest. He looked no more than seventeen or eighteen and had a look of distaste on his face.

“You can take the Greenie out of the barn,” he said as they danced, “and you can fancy her up, but you can’t take the barn smell out of the Greenie.”

Wonderful, she thought. She was paired with an arrogant twit and he was probably of noble lineage to have been invited to the ball. There were a lot like him in the exclusive light horse. It was unlikely this young fellow had ever seen battle, and the medals on his chest were probably for excellence in boot shining and the like.

“You are no lady,” he continued, “wearing boots and breeches like a man to a ball. You insult our king and queen.”

Oh, so he was allowed to wear his uniform and she was not? Well, his accent was of the east, no doubt Coutrean, so he was of a conservative mindset.

“And disgustingly disfigured,” he added. “I do not know why they invited you.”

As they wove in and out among the others, she struggled with herself not to knock him down. She could let go and walk away, but it would disrupt the pattern of the dance for all the others, creating something of a scene. Besides, she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of thinking he had cowed her.

“I’m dancing with a girl who smells of horse shit,” he added.

Considering she had thoroughly bathed, and her formal uniform had not seen the interior of any stables, and the Eletian longcoat gave off a pleasant scent of greenery and wild flowers, he had to make up insults to put her in her place as a lowly commoner pretending to be someone important. Also, as he was some years her junior, he had no call to refer to her as a girl.

The more she resisted rising to his bait, the more disgruntled he appeared and the harder he jerked her around in the dance, but once again employing her training with Master Drent, she did not give when he jerked but planted her footwork as she would when moving through intricate swordfighting forms. It was balance and counterbalance with him, and it was he who stumbled.

“You are no lady,” he muttered again, but he stopped trying to jerk her around.

She smiled as sweetly as she could manage, which made him frown.

She would not give in to her temper like she might have in her school years. Back then she would have wiped that smirk right off his haughty face. Her dark self really wanted her to, but she was no longer the schoolgirl, and she didn’t need to draw further attention to herself by causing a spectacle. Plus, it was hardly as if she’d never heard such comments before. Green Riders had always been the subject of derisive name-calling, even if it had decreased in recent years.

Still, she stewed inside as they dipped and careened with the music, other conversations an indistinct babble around them. Her dark self goaded her to tell him that it must be hard for him being the youngest boy of a lord with heirs in line before him and all his father’s holdings and land divided among his older siblings, leaving him with nothing. Dark Karigan wanted to make him feel small, to disparage his status and to call him a bastard because he might very well be the bastard son of a noble. It was common for the children of landless nobles as well as bastards to end up in the military as officers, even without training, to give them some standing in life, and it was usually the light horse that received them because it was considered elite. It was more likely because noble children knew how to ride. It was the military or the monastery for them, and in that, Karigan found some pity for the young lieutenant.

No pity, her dark self told her. Tell him these things. Make him feel small and unwanted. Make him cry as you did the bullies in school.

I will not, Karigan thought, no matter how much she wanted to take a swipe at his arrogance, but arrogance was often a shield against an underlying lack of self-esteem compensated by denigrating others to make one feel superior and strong.

Instead, she complimented him on his dancing, which, as a noble’s son, he would have also been trained in. Her dark self sighed in disappointment, and the young man looked perplexed that she would compliment him after his nasty comments. Perhaps, instead of a compliment, he perceived it as mockery. Not much she could do about that.

Despite her unwillingness to give in to her temper, she was not above a certain amount of pettiness. Before their set came to an end, she said, “Please give Horse Marshal Martel my best.”

“Why would I do that?” he demanded.

“Oh, over the years he has tried to recruit me to the light cavalry, but I prefer the messenger service.”

At that moment the partner change was called and she released him. Before the lieutenant moved on, Zachary came to her and bowed deeply.

“My Lady Winterlight,” he said brightly.

“Your Majesty,” she replied, bowing in turn.

“It is an honor to dance with you again,” he said, and he whisked her onto the dance floor.

The last she saw of the young lieutenant, he was watching them with an astonished expression on his face before he finally left the dance floor.

THE HARVEST BALL

PROMENADE

Crescendo

Zachary smiled down at her. “What was that about between you and Lieutenant . . .” He seemed to search for a name but could not come up with it. That certainly would have displeased the lieutenant.

“Nothing,” she said, “just telling him what a privilege it was to dance with an officer of the light horse.”

Zachary looked askance at her but did not pursue the matter.

They danced effortlessly, skimming the floor as smoothly as skaters, flying, soaring, dipping, rising. Her hair and feather fluttered into her face. They spun and whirled gazes locked, her hand in his, his arm around her. Her other hand rested on his shoulder.

In dance, as in arms training, they were so well matched, their complementary movements so harmonious, it almost felt as though they were linked on some greater level that merged them body and mind, and made them one. She wondered what sharing other physical pursuits with him would be like.

Her cheeks flamed at such thoughts.

She exulted that here in this moment, even in this place among other people, they could be together, touch, feel the heat of the other, their hearts beating in unison, and gaze into one another’s eyes with none wiser to the truth. She yearned for more, but was grateful for what she had, this connection they currently shared.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” he asked.

“I am now.”

His smile flickered into a grin. “I am glad you decided to come. Estora was not sure you would.”

She was glad she had, too. In his arms she felt as though she floated and she could pretend it was just the two of them in the ballroom, making love through the dance, in the open, a dream. If only it could last, for her dream was shattered when all too soon the dance master called out the change and she was abruptly torn from Zachary’s embrace and received by her next partner, an older man with few teeth. He was rather nimble for his advanced age and looked at her with a sharp eye.

“You married, girl?”

His question was accompanied by spittle that sprayed her cheek. She grimaced, but couldn’t free her hand to wipe her face. “Uh . . .”

“I need heirs. Got a big estate. You’d be taken care of.”

Dear gods, she thought, and got a jolt when the hand on her waist traveled inappropriately. She grabbed his wrist and moved his hand to her swordbelt, a warning. “I am betrothed,” she sternly told him to make him behave.

“Too bad. You look like a healthy girl, like I could get some heirs out of you.”

She fought her anger at his boorish manner and maintained as much space between them as she could. “I am sure you will make some lady very happy.”

“She’s gotta be young. I need heirs.”

The tempo moderated and, much to her relief, she was released, and as she spun to her next partner, she yanked a handkerchief out of her pocket to wipe her face. She crossed paths with Estora who was destined for Lord Sweaty Hands. She seemed to know what lay in store for her, for her mouth was a thin line of distaste. Karigan cast her a sympathetic look and found herself face to face with Enver. He looked as though he wished to flee. She grabbed his hand.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

Double Time

He was plainly unhappy and wouldn’t look at her.

“You’ve got to stop this avoidance,” she told him.

“As you wish, Dama.”

“Ugh. And they call me stubborn.”

Now he looked at her with a startled expression.

Good. She had his attention now. Or, at least, part of it. They had to stay aware of the dance as they careened around the clover leaf pattern. To make a mistake could cause a disastrous collision with another couple—the possibility of which was part of the thrill of the dance, but of which she had no desire to enact—and as smooth and balanced as Enver was, dancing with him lacked the seamless perfection of partnering with Zachary.

“I thought I made it clear I’d no animosity toward you for what happened back in the north after our visit with the p’ehdrose,” she said.

“You did,” he replied.

They swooped and rushed to the music.

“Then why do you keep avoiding me? You can’t even look at me.”

“I apologize, Dama, but I will always carry the shame.”

“Stop it,” she said. He looked stunned. “The ones who should be ashamed are those who manipulated us and put us into that position. I won’t let them take away our friendship.”

“It is . . . just friendship?”

“Well, yes . . .” And suddenly she was afraid of what he would say next, but he said nothing, his expression downcast. There was more going on behind his eyes that she could not read. “You look like you have more to say.”

He took a deep breath. She felt his chest heave in their close proximity. “I have had to see Gweflin for healing.”

She recalled the Eletian mender who had been so helpful and kind to her while she awaited trial in the Alluvium.

“You have? What for? Are you ill?”

“For you,” he said with some difficulty.

“I don’t understand.”

“To me, you are a sickness.”

She was so stunned she could not speak. Their dance stumbled to a stop and the couple behind them nearly slammed into them. Before she could find her voice, he abandoned her on the dance floor. She started to follow him, but other couples cut her off, and a moment later, Lord Penburn claimed her even as another gentleman entered the floor to take Enver’s place and dance with the lady who’d been left unpartnered.

As they set off, she craned her neck trying to locate Enver, but could not find him until at last, they rounded a turn on the dance floor and she saw him running up the stairs and out of the ballroom. She thought to go after him and lost the rhythm and stumbled. Lord Penburn helped her keep to her feet and held her close. What had Enver meant that she was a sickness to him?

“Have you considered my invitation, my lady?” Penburn asked.

“What?” So distracted by Enver was she that Penburn’s words hadn’t registered. She tore her gaze from the stairs and looked up at her partner. “Invitation?”

They careened past Zachary and Estora. Estora cast her an odd look and said something to Zachary.

“My country estate,” Lord Penburn said. “It’s called Riverrock as it overlooks the Grandgent. In springtime the gardens are splendid and there is boating on the river, and much open space for riding.”

“Uh . . .” Thrown off guard, and her thoughts still entangled by what Enver had said, she couldn’t seem to find coherent words with which to respond.

“I am sure the king would be willing to release you for a time,” he added

“I don’t know . . .”

“To be plain,” he said, “I wish to court the Lady Winterlight, though I must do this properly and seek the consent of your father. Er, one of your fathers if I understand the situation correctly. Or, must I ask both? How does one seek an audience with King Santanara?”

She was flabbergasted. “Courting? You want to . . . ?” Words continued to fail her.

“Very much so, my lady.”

She was spared having to answer by a sudden partner change, but she was passed back to Lord Sweaty Hands, who regarded her with trepidation. Fortunately for him the tempo slowed down, but his apprehension was well founded. She, with her mind bursting with thoughts and emotions between Zachary, Enver, and Penburn, flung him about the ballroom floor.

The tempo moderated further into a slow waltz and with the next partner change she found herself once more in Zachary’s arms.

Open Finish

He held her close to his chest and she sighed in contentment, but it was short-lived. He gazed down at her with an odd expression on his face.

“Karigan, Estora . . . Estora tells me you’re betrothed.”

“What?”

“I wish you had mentioned it, or perhaps you were planning a special announcement? Who is it? Enver?”

“What?” She cursed under her breath, wishing she could speak in more than one-word outbursts. “I’m not . . .” She thought frantically and guessed that Lord Toothless must have mentioned it to Estora or another dancer and the rumor began to spread. A rumor she had inadvertently started!

“Not Enver?” Zachary said. “Lord Penburn, perhaps? I know he is . . . most interested.”

“No-no-no,” she said. “No one. I told him.” She nodded toward Toothless across the dance floor who was locked with some poor young lady with a mortified expression on her face. “I told him so he would not get any ideas about getting heirs from me.” The mere thought made her grimace in distaste.

Understanding lit Zachary’s features. “Old Lord Garvy. Yes, he’s been searching for a woman to marry since his first wife passed, leaving him without heirs. Perhaps I will have a talk with him about proper manners. It is not the first I’ve heard of his crass approach to courting young ladies.”

Crass was an understatement.

“It does, however, bring up something I’ve been thinking about,” he continued, now looking troubled, his tone serious and quiet enough for her ears only. “It is complicated between us, and I think you know the feelings I have for you. We both know that Estora has freed us to be together, but it is still a difficult situation with which to come to terms.”

“Yes,” she murmured, soaking in the warmth of his touch and the intimacy of the dance, the scent of him.

“I feel,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “I feel as if I am holding you back, that this situation hurts you, which is the last thing I desire. Karigan, I love you, but the position I am in . . . I can’t give you what we both want, what you deserve.” Their dance stumbled out of rhythm. “Even with what Estora has offered us,” he continued, “I can’t think it is fair to you. You deserve more, someone with whom you can spend the whole of your life. Someone who can meet your needs in ways I cannot. A love that does not need to be hidden.” He whispered, “I love you and I will to my grave, and that is why I wish you to be free to find someone else to fill your heart.”

No! she wanted to cry. No! He filled her heart, and she didn’t want to even imagine anyone else, no matter the cost, even as she recognized the sense of his words, and had in fact concluded after that day in the tombs they needed distance, that their love could not work. That it simply was a torment for them both.

The music ended, and when they parted, it felt as though her heart was being ripped into pieces and a vast gulf had opened between them. There was a glistening in his eyes and he turned away even as those who had watched the dance applauded.

Lord Penburn approached her with a chagrined expression on his face and bowed. “My pardon, my lady, had I known you were betrothed, I surely would not have persisted in my attentions. Whoever the gentleman is, he is most fortunate.”

Her thoughts were still with Zachary so by the time she realized what Lord Penburn had said, it was too late to correct him, and he was already off mixing with other guests. She wanted to run from the ballroom so frustrated was she, and go to her room and bawl into her pillow. Why must everything be so hard? First Enver had abandoned her, now Zachary.

Estora joined her just then, glanced in Lord Penburn’s direction, and said, “Karigan, you’ve been keeping secrets! I must say I am surprised given everything, but is it true? Do we need to plan a wedding?”

“Oh, gods,” Karigan muttered. She watched Zachary speaking with Telagioth and a few others. “No, no wedding. I was just trying to divert Lord—” What was Toothless’ name again? Garvy. “It was a ruse to dissuade Lord Garvy’s attentions.”

“Ah,” Estora said. “I understand. I don’t blame you. That old man is a letch. I expect he will find a wife eventually, probably from a lesser family looking to move up in status. I feel sorry for whoever she may be, though I suppose it’s unlikely he’ll see a great many more years.” She sighed. “I do have to say I’m a trifle disappointed, though. I always look forward to planning a wedding.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh,” Estora said, “there will be others, I’m sure, but you best be prepared that the rumor you are betrothed will circulate for a good while. It could work to your advantage in the short term if you wish to avoid certain gentlemen asking to court you. Not that I’m suggesting anything, but one could do worse than Lord Penburn. Now, now, don’t give me that look.”

Karigan realized that glaring at her queen probably was not wise in this company.

“You have noble status now,” Estora continued, “and are still of childbearing age, which makes you very desirable, and at this level of society, a noble marriage is considered an obligation. This is a reality to which you must accustom yourself.”

For which, Karigan thought with indignation, she could thank the Eletians.

They had to clear the dance floor for the next set. Estora went her own way and Karigan found herself standing alone among the milling guests as the music rose into a rustic country dance. She no longer watched after Zachary. His words, no matter how well intentioned, continued to rip her up inside.

The happy mood of the party clamored against her gloom and grief. Yes, grief. Enver’s words wounded her intensely and she hadn’t even understood what he meant that she was his sickness. It was a terrible thing for him to say, and worse for her to hear.

Then there was Zachary letting her go. Their situation was torture for them both, and it was best for all concerned for her to move on, and yet . . . And yet she could not imagine herself with anyone else. Well, maybe one other, but he was lost to her in the future.

She was done. She wanted her bed and her privacy. It was time to leave.

Darkness comes . . .

“Nari?” Karigan lifted her head.

Darkness comes . . .

The whisperer’s chill breath wisped down the back of her neck. She turned and turned again, looking, looking, looking, a sense of dread overpowering the music, dimming the golden light like a giant wave cresting over the ballroom.

Discordance

A horse and rider crashed through one of the ballroom’s great windows. Shards of glass exploded through the air and tore into guests. Cold air funneled through the broken window and snuffed out candles. The rider emanated an aura of dark.

The convivial atmosphere of the ball turned to one of chaos and stark terror. People screamed and cried. They stampeded toward the stairs that led out, overturning food tables and decor as they went, and trampling unfortunates who had fallen. The orchestra’s last note died in discordance as the musicians threw down their instruments and ran.

The horse reared and its rider raised a sword with a sickly green gleam emanating from the blade. “Galadheon . . . I seek the Galadheon . . .”

THE HARVEST BALL

FUGUE

Karigan stood planted in place while Weapons ushered Estora out and carried Zachary away. He called her name and desperately reached for her, but the Weapons overpowered him in order to carry out their mandate to protect their king.

The wraith wrought a wide swath of carnage as it swept its blade through stragglers attempting to flee and guards pouring into the ballroom. The wooden skeletons chattered overhead.

Travis appeared at her side and started to pull her away. “Sir Karigan, you must come to safety.”

“No,” she said with a solemn knowing. “There is no safety. Not for me.”

He stopped pulling, must have seen something in her face or heard it in her voice. “What will you do?”

“You must go to the king.” Command rang in her voice. “You must ensure he and his family are safe.”

He nodded and sprinted for the stairs. She wanted nothing more than to go with him, but the wraith would not stop until it reached her. This she knew even as the presence of Westrion began to fill her and the wind that preceded the arrival of Salvistar, his great steed, swept around her.

The spirits of those the wraith killed rose from their bodies—ladies in fine ball gowns, soldiers and servants. Some appeared confused; others simply started to float away. Lichant hissed an order, and, bound and enslaved by his sword, they drifted toward her.

In a blinking, the avatar was clad in the armor of star steel that had been forged by the god Belasser, whose forge was the stars. The light of those stars gleamed upon the shield she bore, its device a luminous crescent moon. Winged symbols of protection glided across the shield and armor. The spirits reached for her, desperate to feed on her soul. She waded into the revenant mist of lords and ladies, servants and guards, that billowed around her. Their touch caused the protective symbols to spit and sputter, some to burn out. The avatar paused, for this had never happened before. She called her star steel sword to hand and swept it through the spirits. Their forms twisted around her blade like wet rags and clung to it, fouling it and straining its protections. It required more force to end the existence of the apparitions and the avatar exerted herself in a way she’d never had to before. When finally she cleaved them all into nonexistence, she stood panting from the effort, but at last Salvistar arrived.

Black and huge, Salvistar’s muscles flexed and rippled with fury, his hide embodying the depth of the universe. Without a thought or movement on her part, she was seated upon the deep saddle on his back. He needed no bit or bridle, and wore only a chafron of star steel upon his face.

White arrows flashed through the air at the wraith shot by five Eletians who had been present at the ball, but this was Lichant, powerful and preternaturally fast, and it swiped the arrows aside with its blade. They raised their moonstones filled with silver moonlight. The stones brightened, brightened, brightened the whole of the ballroom to drive the very dark from all the world, and Lichant backed away. Smoke arose from its rags as purest light burned into it. Its horse squealed in fear.

But then Lichant opened its loathsome mouth and ancient words of a foul language of Mornhavon’s creation rasped out in an incantation. The moonstones dimmed, for the brighter the light, the darker the shadows. One after the other, with each fell word uttered by the wraith, the moonstones cracked and released their ancient silver moonbeams, which died in the immensity of the dark.

The Eletians cried out in dismay.

“Go,” the avatar ordered them.

Even Eletians could not quite see her, but they heard or felt the command. They protested, called out to her.

“Go.” The word was simply spoken but rang like thunder. The stallion stomped a single massive hoof and the floor cracked down the center of the room to where the Eletians stood and caused the ground to quake, the ballroom to tremble. The skeletons jangled, decorative plaster fell from the ceiling and smashed on tile, and glass windows cracked. The message delivered, the Eletians retreated and the avatar put them out of her mind for the enemy lay ahead.

The wraith sat as still as the dead in its saddle. Its horse was ordinary and mortal, and its neck foamed with sweat, eyes rolling wildly. It bled from dozens of cuts from the window. The slain lay beneath the horse’s hooves, and no more guards attempted an assault.

“Galadheon,” Lichant hissed.

“I am the voice of Westrion.”

“A puppet.”

“No more than you,” the avatar replied.

They launched at each other. Their swords clashed. The force of Lichant’s ill-made sword resonated up her arm with unexpected power. The wraith struck like a viper, but she’d the will of Westrion upon her and she countered just as quickly.

“You will be turned,” Lichant said.

“You will be made into dust as long ago you should have been,” the avatar replied.

Salvistar shouldered the mortal horse, and it staggered, almost heaving over. Lichant brutally laid its rusted spurs into its sides and it leaped back into the fray. Lichant clove into her shield, cutting through the crescent moon device. The protections embedded in it held it together, but already made vulnerable by contact with the spirits, it was further weakened by the blow. Westrion’s avatar realized then that the wraith’s sword was not merely a soul-stealing weapon, but some other power was upon it, and suddenly she understood.

Black Star.

During the Long War, Mornhavon the Black had created a magical device so powerful he thought to use it to win the war and tame all the lands. He failed and King Santanara had captured the Black Star and “killed” Mornhavon with it. Something of that powerful magic had been added into the making of Lichant’s sword.

The avatar renewed her attack, her blade thrusting and parrying with such speed it was a blur. The wraith scored another hit on her shield. It was no glancing blow, and the shield split with a tremendous crack, its protections dying immediately. It turned into vapor and vanished.

Salvistar snorted and charged into the wraith’s horse once again. It toppled, but not before Lichant cleaved its sword into the avatar’s breastplate. If steel could scream, it did so, the protective symbols flaring and dying and bleeding the luminous ichor of stars.

Lichant rose and leaped on the side of its fallen horse. It raised its sword over its head. “Behold, Dirasgheul, the God Killer.” The greenish glow of the blade intensified.

The protections of the avatar’s armor, weakened by spirits and wounded by the wraith, screamed in her head as they died. The injury to the steel spread, crackling in arcs of star-born energy in its death throes and subjecting her to forces no mortal should withstand, and, in turn, weakening her. The wraith knocked the sword from her hand. She tried to call it back, but it turned to vapor and dissipated.

The wraith’s blade cut into the avatar’s armor again and she tumbled from her mount onto broken glass. Energy arced and burned through the armor, causing the mortal woman within to twitch and writhe. Lichant stood above her, holding the sword two handed, ready to plunge it deep into the avatar’s chest.

“You will be chained and turned,” it intoned.

Salvistar bellowed his fury and a challenge. He reared to protect the avatar. The wraith pivoted and drove its sword into the great stallion’s chest. Salvistar crashed to the floor beside his rider.

Dirasgheul the God Killer had succeeded. Lichant watched as the god-being, Salvistar, took his final breath. But curiously the stallion’s wound did not bleed, but leaked the heavens with a viscous fluidity, the stars and planetary bodies and moons, gaseous objects and a hail of meteors. It flowed into the ballroom across the avatar’s prone form, swirling, expanding. It floated among the dim chandeliers and wood skeletons and swallowed them.

The wraith backed away for it sensed a buildup of power, a surge—

A blinding light exploded through the ballroom and blazed through the windows. The wraith shrieked—a sound like to peel skin off flesh—and leaped over the broken windowsill where it had entered. It vanished into the night. When the flash faded, all that remained in the ballroom were the corpses of the dead, overturned tables, and the decor. The hanging skeletons seemed to come to life in the light of sputtering candles.

The great steed of Westrion lay dead, and his avatar was gone.

INTERLUDE

Amid the carnage, a cloudy patch of mist materialized and transformed into the shape of a gray-cloaked man. Neither shadow nor fully solid, he picked his way around the dead to the corpse of Salvistar. Much of the stallion’s life’s blood had left him, but some power remained. The entity knelt beside him and felt around the wound the wraith had made. The powerful sword had cut deep into Salvistar’s chest, allowing the entity to reach into it elbow deep. A god-being was not made of the same stuff as mortals or even Eletians. They were made of energies beyond the ken of any Earthly being, and yet, as the entity groped within the stallion’s chest cavity, he felt bone and tissue and organ just like the innards of an ordinary horse—slippery, wet, fibrous, hard. When the god-being descended to Earth, the entity thought, its energies manifested a form akin to what existed on the Earthly plane.

When the entity found what he sought, he knew he had captured the power of the gods. When he withdrew it from the corpse, the great stallion’s form evanesced in a sparkling vapor that streamed out the broken window.

The gray entity, with his prize pulsing in his hands, smiled in triumph. All he needed now was the avatar.

AFTER THE BALL

NOCTURNE

The aides, military officers, and servants who attended Zachary saw a capable and calm king, but Estora, who knew him more intimately, saw the strain fraying at the edges of his demeanor and apprehended what it took for him to retain that facade in the aftermath of an attack by an evil wraith on the castle. And most of all, in the not knowing of what had become of his love.

The Weapons had rushed them to the armory, a lower section of the castle with extremely thick walls, narrow corridors, and no windows. Her children had also been brought down. Their nurses comforted and sang to them in a chamber full of spears, swords, arrows, and other weaponry stockpiled against future war.

The intrusion by the wraith had been shocking and frightful in its suddenness. She recalled the dreadful fear and panic that fell over the ballroom when the window shattered. She hadn’t seen much because the Weapons had grabbed her immediately, but she’d heard the screams. She still heard them in her mind. She closed her eyes and shivered.

“You must not take cold, my lady,” said Jaid, her maid. She placed her own shawl over Estora’s shoulders.

“Won’t you be chilled?”

“No, my lady. I have a healthy amount of meat on my bones, but you do not.”

Despite the insinuation that she was too skinny and frail, Estora smiled at her, grateful for the shawl, for she was dressed in only her evening finery. She’d not needed anything else to keep her warm during the rigors of the dance.

Both the captain of the guard and the captain of the doors attended Zachary. She saw how he clenched his hands at his sides, the tautness of his jaw, the corded muscles of his neck.

“—hunting the wraith through the city. Somehow it slipped away from castle grounds.”

Anger rolled off Zachary. His chest fell with the release of a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but tense.

“See that it does not escape the city.”

“Yes, sire. All guards are on alert throughout the city.”

Zachary turned to the captain of the doors, a dismissal to the captain of the guard who bowed unnoticed and left.

“We are working on a list of the deceased,” the captain of the doors said. “Many castle guards, some of the guests, servants.”

“Messengers?” Zachary asked tersely.

“Messengers, sire?”

“One of my Green Riders was in attendance.”

“I have not heard, sire. The scene in the ballroom . . .” The captain paused and swallowed. “We are still working our way through. It is not . . . easy.”

“I see,” Zachary replied in a softer tone.

“We have learned nothing more about the great flash some witnessed, but it was seen just before the wraith vanished. Witnesses said the creature seemed to be fighting and stabbing the air, and then the flash.”

“Continue with questioning the witnesses and taking account of the dead. There will be several families in mourning tonight.”

One of the children began to cry. Estora turned and found it was Esmere. The nurse gently rocked her in her arms, but Esmere’s cry turned into a wail. To Estora’s astonishment, Zachary swept past her to where the nurses sat.

“Here, let me,” he said.

He took the bundle that was his daughter into his arms and murmured unintelligibly to her. He carried her about and even gave her a wadded handkerchief dipped in wine to suck on. Lulled by his voice, Esmere quieted and fell asleep in his arms.

“You’ve a way with babies,” Estora told him. “I have a feeling she’ll have her papa wrapped around her little finger.”

He smiled, though it was fleeting, and she could see both the worry and sadness in his eyes. “If only I could keep her safe forever.”

Estora was not sure he meant Esmere.

Then he said, “Comforting her comforts me.”

This she understood.

Fastion ushered Captain Connly and Lieutenant Brennyn in. Still cradling Esmere in his arms, Zachary said, “Any sign of our Rider?”

“Not yet, Your Majesty,” Connly replied. “All of us are searching. Her horse is frantic.”

Estora took that to mean that Karigan’s horse sensed she was in trouble. She knew enough about Green Riders to understand they’d strong bonds with their horses. Zachary frowned.

Estora turned her attention to Lieutenant Brennyn as Connly reported to Zachary. The lieutenant’s face was wan beneath her burn scars and she trembled. She was doing a fair job of concealing it, but her eyes . . . Her eyes were those of someone haunted by her worst nightmare. Such a contrast to the confident and capable Rider Estora knew her to be.

Estora approached and lightly touched her sleeve. She started.

“I apologize, Lieutenant,” Estora said quietly. “I did not mean to startle you.”

The lieutenant opened her mouth to speak. Closed it, then bowed.

“Are you quite all right?” Estora asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she replied too quickly.

Estora knew the history, of course, of how the lieutenant had defeated the wraith, Mirdhwell, three years ago using her ability with fire. She’d almost lost her life in the resulting conflagration. Rider barracks had burned down and another Rider had perished in the blaze. What it took for Mara Brennyn to face that wraith, and then to heal from her painful injuries, Estora couldn’t fathom.

“Lieutenant,” she said, “might you sit with me for a few minutes.”

“My lady, I cannot. I’ve—”

“I insist. Jaid will make us some of my favorite tea.”

“I—” The lieutenant glanced at her captain.

“I am borrowing the lieutenant for a while,” Estora told him.

Connly nodded. “As you wish, my lady.”

“But Karigan—” the lieutenant began.

“Everyone’s looking,” Connly said. “We can spare you for a little while. Besides, this is your queen requesting you to sit with her.”

Estora sat the lieutenant down in a quiet corner of the armory and directed Jaid to fetch the tea. “Two pots,” she said. “I think we could all use a cup.”

As Jaid departed, Estora sat beside the lieutenant. “I imagine tonight’s intrusion has brought back bad memories for you.”

“Ever since . . . Ever since the fire at barracks, I have nightmares sometimes. Usually I am busy enough that the memories don’t bother me a whole lot. But I never expected this, another wraith.” She closed her eyes and trembled hard. Estora took her hand and listened.

• • •

Some time later, three of the Eletians were brought to the armory, led by Telagioth. Estora left Lieutenant Brennyn in Jaid’s care and rose to see what they had to say.

“We witnessed the wraith’s entrance,” Telagioth said. “Byrnin retrieved our bows and arrows, but alas they were no match against the creature, nor were all our moonstones combined, for it has reforged a foul weapon that has made it very powerful. Powerful enough, it was said of old, to slay gods.”

“How is such a thing even possible?” Estora asked.

Telagioth settled his cerulean eyes on her and she felt drawn into ancient days and the turmoil and conflict of those long ago Ages he had known.

“The sword was originally forged during the making of Mornhavon’s Black Star, and some of that element was melded into the blade. Very powerful and dark magic that furthered the ruination of Argenthyne and almost caused the defeat of the Alliance during the Long War. It will take extraordinary intervention to defeat the wraith.”

“That sword should have been destroyed,” said Les Tallman, who had been listening in on the conversation.

“Verily. It was broken and hidden by your people. The wraith in its barrow was chained and warded. Mortals forget, however, that nothing is permanent. Wards falter in time and chains rust away.”

“Why was the sword not totally destroyed?” Les Tallman asked.

“It may be that it was not possible.”

Esmere started to fuss, but this time Zachary could not quiet her.

“May I?” Lhean asked, and he stretched out his arms. The Weapons on guard tensed.

Zachary hesitated and gave Estora a questioning look. There was much talk about whether or not to trust the Eletians, but intuition told her that her daughter was more than safe with Eletians. She nodded and Zachary passed Esmere to Lhean.

Unabashed joy sparked in Lhean’s face, and the third Eletian, Idris, leaned in to get a closer look at the baby, her eyes bright and expression as joyous as Lhean’s. Lhean began to sing softly to Esmere in his own tongue. It was a sweet melody like drifting among the clouds.

“So young and new to the world,” Telagioth said with a smile. “Infants are a rarity among Eletians and each is cherished.”

Esmere settled in Lhean’s arms and she gazed up at him with inquisitive eyes.

Zachary, in a more serious counterpoint, asked, “Did you see what happened to Rider—your Dama?”

Estora could tell his patience was wearing thin. His agitation was probably what had stirred Esmere.

“She vanished,” Telagioth said, looking troubled.

“As in her ability?” Zachary asked quietly.

“No, Firebrand. This was the involvement of a greater presence that required her to serve.”

“What does that mean?” Les Tallman demanded.

Estora wondered, too, but saw understanding in Zachary’s eyes.

“It is not to be discussed,” he said.

Les Tallman opened his mouth as if to question him, but a curt shake of Zachary’s head forestalled him. This was not the time to press him, Estora thought, but later, when all calmed down, she would ask him.

“Was she all right before—before she vanished?”

“It is not known,” Telagioth replied. “We could not see her properly. We believe she fought the wraith, but a great disruption occurred and she is gone from all reckoning.”

THE TALE OF THE NIGHT SKY

Estora placed her hand on Zachary’s shoulder. She felt him tremble.

“That is all you can tell me?” he said.

She could see the effort it took for him to contain his temper, his worry.

Telagioth hesitated, an uncharacteristic moment of doubt for him. “We sensed a cataclysmic event,” he said finally. “The wraith succeeded in slaying a god, or at least a lesser one. Not our Dama,” he quickly added. “I think we would know if that had happened.”

It took a moment for Estora to register the implication of his words, and at first she thought she must have misunderstood him. She almost laughed, but not in the way of a jest, but with a tinge of hysteria. After Karigan had used her moonstone as a beacon to lead so many people to safety when the lower city was ablaze, some folk had seemed to see her as a Spirit of Light sent by the gods. It had enraged Prime Brynston to no end and he’d been ready to put her on trial as a heretic, but Estora had persuaded him that Karigan was nothing of the sort and that the folk who had been so fearful were grateful for her guiding them out of the conflagration. He spoke no more of a trial though she knew the issue still irritated him.

But now, had Telagioth just indicated Karigan was a—a god? Did the Eletians look to her as more than adopted Eletian royalty? Impossible, she thought.

“You are telling us a god has been killed?” Les Tallman demanded.

“A lesser god,” Telagioth said. “The night sky will tell the tale.”

“It will what?” Les’ expression was one of disbelief.

“Did I misunderstand, or did you imply Karigan is a god?” Estora asked.

Telagioth shook his head. “No, my lady. Our Dama is many things, but she is not a god. I apologize if my words suggested otherwise.”

Lhean approached once again with Esmere still in his arms. “I believe your daughter has quieted,” he said. It was such a simple but calming thing to hear when in the midst of a discussion about god slaying and a missing friend. Esmere’s nurse came forward and collected her small ward.

“I will now go sit with your Green Rider lieutenant,” Lhean said. “Perhaps I can aid her in her distress.”

The moment gave Estora time for what Telagioth had said to finally sink in. “Is it even possible to slay a god?” she murmured, more to herself. In the teachings of the moon priests, the gods were all-powerful. They were not mortal humans, and she always believed that at some point in time people began to depict them as human, or near human, to be relatable, less an idea and more solid in the minds of those who worshipped them. She and Prime Brynston had gently disagreed on this notion. In the Book of the Moon, it was written that humankind was created in the vision of the gods. As conservative as her upbringing had been, she had not taken everything in the Book of the Moon as verbatim, but as metaphorical. Teachings. Morals. She knew that on this, Brynston would also disagree.

As quietly as she had spoken, Telagioth heard her. “Nothing is permanent,” he replied. “Not this Earth or the sun, or all the stars in the universe. Not the Eletians, and not even your gods. All pass with time. It may take many eons, but at last all changes and ends like the ocean tides that come in and go out, forever altering the shoreline with every wave, with every ripple, even if subtly.”

“If that is so,” she said, “if a god has died this night, we should send for Prime Brynston.”

“No,” Zachary said in a sharp voice.

“My lord,” she said, “the slaying of a god—this is beyond. I can’t even begin to comprehend what it means, the repercussions.”

“We will not send for Brynston until we know more.”

Telagioth watched their exchange intently, but his mild manner did not reveal his thoughts.

The very idea that gods could end, could be killed, was too much. It was shattering. But perhaps Zachary was right not to send for Brynston, for what did Eletians know of Sacoridian gods? Telagioth must be wrong.

The Eletian’s gaze settled on her with a knowing intensity. Those ancient eyes of his. Perhaps he was ancient enough to know more about her gods than even she.

When the Eletians had no more to offer, they departed, and Lieutenant Brennyn, seeming much more her old self, left to resume her duties. The evening wore on with reports coming in to Zachary of updated casualty lists and the fruitless hunt for the wraith. There remained no word of Karigan.

Estora tired of the armory with only uncomfortable thoughts of how her faith had been shaken by Telagioth’s words. Hours had come and gone though she knew not how many for she could not hear the city bell toll through the thick walls. She guessed it was some time past midnight. Zachary paced, his temper growing shorter with those who could provide him with no answers.

She caught his hand and softly said, “She will return. She always does.” Return from where, however? She did not know, but her words seemed to comfort him. Turning to Donal, she said, “There has been no sign of this wraith in the castle. Might we retire to our quarters? This chamber is not a suitable nursery for my children.”

“If you would allow me a moment to consult with the others, my lady.”

He stepped into the corridor to speak with the captain of the guard and other Weapons, with Zachary joining them. To her satisfaction, it was agreed the danger was past for now, but additional Weapons would stand guard around the royal apartments. She sent Jaid and the nurses ahead with the children. She was about to follow when a guard escorted a man and woman to Zachary. She recognized them as two of the star masters Zachary allowed to use the observatory on the castle roof. Both were garbed in heavy coats and mittens and brimmed with excitement. She wondered what business they could possibly have with their king on a night such as this.

“The sky, Your Majesty!” the man exclaimed. “It has changed.”

Estora froze in place. Telagioth’s words about the slaying of a god came back to her: “The night sky will tell the tale.”

The blinding flash in the mortal sphere had heralded the transformation of the divine energy of the slain god-being, Salvistar, steed of the god of death. The plasmic power of the god erupted into the heavens.

The star masters back on the Earth had long watched and recorded the movements of the moon, planetary bodies, stars, and other phenomena, but on this night they had observed the sudden appearance of a stellar mist form. The ordinary gaseous clouds far above in the heavens they theorized to be dust and ice adrift, illumined by starlight, but never had they seen a cloud form with such immediacy and so much closer than all others. Even when they stepped away from the great scope on the castle roof, they could faintly make it out with the naked eye. It undulated, thickened and thinned, drifted and expanded.

Just as suddenly as it had appeared, it shimmered like the bursting of millions of stars. Then faded. The vapor dissipated afterward and in its place was revealed an entirely new constellation. The star masters gazed at it in wonder and plotted it out on their star charts, and drew various shapes of what they thought it resembled. They settled on calling it the Great Horse.

And only then did they conclude, after recording their observations and making calculations, that the formation went beyond the natural philosophy of the study of the heavens, but in fact had been an event of rare and numinous import.

THE CORPSES OF DEAD GODS

Orange sparks drifted into the sky from the bonfire. Alton warmed his hands as did others, the glow flickering against their faces. They’d had a brief snowstorm during the day, and while the snow hadn’t lasted, the cold remained. Despite the weather, the encampment had enjoyed a fine Feast of Vendane with moose and venison and duck brought in by hunters. Everyone ate well and those not on duty had indulged in ale. Revelers brought out their instruments, and dancing and laughter lent a festive air to the encampment. He had not lingered for the entertainment, however, for he knew it was hard on Estral whose music and voice had been stolen from her.

Bonfires before the breach in the D’Yer Wall and in other places along its length had become standard in order to dispose of blighted trees and junk wood left over from building, as much as to keep soldiers on guard duty warm and discourage incursions from Blackveil.

Upon his arrival to the wall, Alton had marveled at how all the cutting and building had transformed the encampments at the breach and Tower of the Heavens. They were more like towns now, burgeoning with troops and buildings and the services a growing military presence required. Each of the ten towers was once again staffed by a Green Rider and a squad of soldiers. It pleased him enormously though he felt it well past time.

“You warm enough?” he asked Estral.

She nodded and smiled, and gestured to him.

“Yes, I am fine,” he replied. “A trifle tight in the belt, though, after that feast.” She’d worried about him and his healing injuries the whole journey down, and every day since, and while his return had drained him of energy and caused him some pain, he’d grown stronger each day. He wasn’t by any means ready to chop down trees or help with the building, but he could go about his day without needing to drop where he stood for a nap.

To Estral’s other side was his little brother, Marc, who banged sticks together and threw whatever he could find on the ground into the fire, and generally made a nuisance of himself. Alton had protested the inclusion of his brother in the party that had ridden out to the wall with Captain Rennard. His father had responded with, “He is a D’Yer. He needs to learn about the wall and its significance now that he’s old enough to understand.”

Almost twelve years old, Alton thought, scowling. Old enough to want to be part of what all the adults were doing, yet young enough to mess with sticks and miss his mother. If their father had had any concerns about sending both his heirs to the wall, he hadn’t shown it.

To Alton’s right, Rennard was in conversation with Lieutenant Fyrth. The fire cast shadows beneath the lieutenant’s eyes.

“Yes, sir,” Fyrth said. “It’s looking good. Gate and walkway and everything.”

Ah, Alton thought. They were talking about the palisade, another big change.

“—a couple more weeks before move in,” Fyrth continued. He scratched beneath his collar and sweat dripped down his temple.

Maybe he oughtn’t stand so close to the fire, Alton thought.

“It is fortunate we just happen to have D’Yerian stone masons on hand,” Rennard said with a chuckle. “We’ll have an entire castle before long.”

The plan was to turn the palisade into a stone-walled keep. Even as the wooden structures were being completed, the masons were beginning work on the keep.

Fyrth nodded, vigorously scratching his neck.

“Something wrong, Lieutenant?” Rennard asked. “Poison ivy?”

“They think it’s too hot.”

“Who?” Rennard asked.

Clack-clack-clack came Marc banging his sticks together.

“Will you quit?” Alton snapped.

Marc paused and pouted. “They keep singing.”

“Who?” The musicians over by the dining hall had taken a break.

“What are you talking about?” Rennard asked Fyrth.

Fyrth winced. “They want to be free. Too hot.” He tore at his collar popping buttons to get at whatever it was that irritated him.

“Why are they always singing?” Marc demanded. He started banging his sticks together again.

Before Alton could rebuke him, Estral tugged on his sleeve and gave him a significant look. At first he didn’t understand, but then he recognized a familiar rhythm.

“Marc—” he began.

“What the hells?” Rennard cried.

Alton tore his gaze from Marc and turned it back to Rennard and Fyrth. The fire cast fluid light on Fyrth’s bare neck. A black pustule, about the size of an egg, twitched, the skin around it blanched and bloodless, and torn by incessant scratching. Black, bulging veins fed the pustule.

“Nythlings!” Alton screamed.

Even as Rennard drew his sword, Fyrth wavered on his feet and vomited black bile and blood down his front. The pustule erupted with yellow pus, and two black reptilian creatures shook free of their fluid sacs and clawed their way out of his neck. They extended membranous wings that glistened with mucus and blood in the firelight.

Rennard drove his sword into Fyrth’s chest, a mercy and necessity if there were other eggs embedded in his flesh. The lieutenant collapsed to the ground and the creatures sank their jaws into his corpse to feed.

“Kill them!” Alton cried, fumbling after his own sword.

Rennard hacked one in half where it sat on Fyrth, his blade sinking into the dead man’s chest. The second creature hissed and lifted off, flying over the heads of those around the fire. People shouted and waved swords in the air trying to reach it.

Where were the damn cats when you needed them? Alton wondered, and he had a swift vision of Mister Whiskers stretched out in front of the hearth in Tower of the Heavens, sleeping soundly with his paws in the air.

The nythling dove and fluttered, snapping its toothy jaw. Alton kept Estral close so he could protect her. The creature was small but quick and vicious. Thanks to reports brought back from the Blackveil expedition, he had known immediately what the growth on Fyrth’s neck had been, and the danger a nythling posed.

A soldier screamed when the thing clamped on to his wrist. He attempted to shake it free. When it came loose, it was with a hunk of flesh in its mouth which it gobbled down. Then it was off again, swerving and zipping around the frenzied humans. Someone managed to hit it with the flat of his sword, but it was only a glancing blow. Then it dove for his brother.

“Marc!” Alton yelled.

He was in mid-leap to reach his brother when Marc simply swung one of the sticks he’d been playing with and whacked the nythling right into the fire. The creature shrieked, but the flames consumed it, its wings coiling into themselves in the heat.

Alton laughed half-hysterically. “Well done!”

Marc shrugged and went back to banging his sticks together.

“Poor Fyrth,” Rennard said, looking down at the remains of his lieutenant. “I suppose we ought to inspect everyone to see if they’ve got any of these things growing on them.”

“Agreed,” Alton said. “We should cremate the lieutenant to ensure there are no more nythlings nesting in him.”

Orders were given for a proper pyre to be erected, and personnel lined up at the dining hall in shifts to be checked over by menders. Alton did his best to calm worries and made sure his brother stayed in line.

“I don’t have any of those things in me,” Marc complained.

“Doesn’t matter. Everyone’s getting checked, including me.”

He was glad to see Rennard also working to keep everyone calm and orderly. When Estral emerged from the curtained area the menders had set up, she gave him a big grin indicating all was well with her.

Thank the gods, he thought.

With her hands she asked how he was doing.

“I am fine,” he replied, and he was surprised to find that it was true. He had come through the episode with the nythlings just fine and felt much like his old self, more than he had since his wounding. “Those nythlings were exactly as described by the reports, though no one seems to have noticed Lieutenant Fyrth acting oddly. One person said he had looked unwell, like he was catching cold, but that’s all.”

Poor man, she gestured.

“Yes.” They’d checked his corpse, as well, but there had been no other pustules on him. The pyre would ensure it and be a respectful send off, but it was a sad end to their holiday celebration. He pulled Estral aside and said, “Marc . . . He must be hearing the voices of the wall. The rhythm he was banging out . . .”

Estral nodded in agreement.

“Hearing voices like that,” Alton continued, “drove my cousin Pendric insane.”

What will you do? she asked with her hands.

“I want to see if the tower will let him in and connect with the spirits in the wall.”

“My lord?”

Alton turned to find Corporal Manning approaching. “Yes, Corporal?”

“Sir . . .” Her expression was odd, her eyes large, and her hesitation unusual.

“What is it? More nythlings?”

“No, sir, but you need to come take a look.”

“Corporal—”

“Please,” she said.

He and Estral followed her outside. A cluster of soldiers gazed at the sky. The stars shone piercingly bright now that the clouds had moved out.

“What is it you wanted to show me, Corporal?”

She pointed at the sky. He and Estral looked up, and after a moment, Estral gasped.

“What is it?” he said. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

Estral cleared her throat, forced herself to speak in a hoarse whisper. “New constellation. Just above the Sword of Sevelon.”

“What? How is that possible?” When he looked, however, he could see it. “How? How do we get a new constellation?”

“Very old lore,” Estral whispered, “the kind that the first moon priests removed from the Book of the Moon as heretical. It’s said a new constellation will form when a god dies.”

“But gods can’t die.”

Estral shrugged. “Those old moon priests didn’t think so either, or they didn’t want anyone to know it was possible.”

“Kind of looks like a horse to me,” Corporal Manning said.

“Or a dog,” Alton murmured. Whatever it was, he saw the new constellation, heard Estral’s words, but could not grasp that it was actually there before his very eyes. “What does it mean when a god dies?”

Estral shook her head, indicating she did not know.

He grew up attending chapel out of duty more than faith. He didn’t think much about the gods on the whole, and had been indifferent at times as to whether or not they existed. If they did, and if the old lore was correct, that meant there was imbalance in the heavens, for the gods supposedly provided humankind with a sort of equilibrium—sun and moon, feast and famine, birth and death. What would imbalance among the gods mean for the world? To his mind the bigger question was, what could cause a god to die?

“If a god has passed,” Estral whispered faintly, “it is a transition, or rather a transformation of great beauty.”

Alton took in all the sky he could. It was staggeringly beautiful, gems set on midnight blue velvet. How many millions were beyond his sight? Despite the beauty, he could only think that the heavens were littered with the corpses of dead gods.

WILD CHILD

In the heart of the Green Cloak Forest lived two elderly sisters, Penelope and Isabelle Berry, better known as Miss Bunch and Miss Bay, and collectively, the Berry sisters. Their stately stone and timber manor house, Seven Chimneys, boasted nine chimneys, though a couple leaned askew, as well as three masts, a bowsprit, and the stern of a pirate ship that had materialized within it. Fortunately the house had largely repaired itself, merging the ship into its structure.

After a most satisfying Feast of Vendane supper consisting of roast piglet, breaded and fried grouse, root vegetables and squash, a veritable heap of mushrooms swimming in butter, cranberry relish, pork pie, mince pie, pumpkin pie, apple pie, and an assortment of tarts all prepared by their invisible servant, Letitia, the sisters decided to take a turn around their estate to assist with the delicate process of digestion.

As the sun set, Miss Bay, tall and seemingly frail, pointed out wrinkled rose hips with her cane, and yellow roses still in bloom, the Seven Chimneys Rose, which would bloom almost year-round. Winterberry shrubs with their bright red berries proliferated around the edges of their pond.

“It is so quiet this time of year,” said Miss Bunch, who was plump and preferred the burnt orange color for her attire that was much like that of the berries of her namesake flora, bunchberry. “No birds squabbling, no frogs jumping into the pond. Just the wind in the pines.”

“Alas, we’ll not have a tweet or warble until spring,” Miss Bay replied.

The two wended their slow way along the path that circumnavigated the pond. At the far end stood an imposing tower, a garden folly built by their father, the late Professor Erasmus Norwood Berry. It leaned aslant due to a marauding nightmare brought to life during the use of one of their father’s arcane relics, a draugmkelder, or “dream gatherer.”

The tower’s reflection rippled as a breeze flowed across the pond’s surface in the dusk of evening. They approached the structure’s doorway, a large, gaping maw of shadows.

“Farnham still has not fixed the door,” Miss Bay complained.

“I think he gets testy when we use father’s old things and they cause breakage, but it’s hard to tell.” Indeed, hard to know when one’s servant was invisible and silent.

As they drew abreast of the tower’s entry, Miss Bunch paused. “Bay, did you hear that?”

“Hear what? Your stomach complaining after all the mince pie you ate?”

“That was not my stomach.” She whispered, “Something is in the tower and it’s growling.”

“Are you absolutely sure it is not your stomach?”

“Quite sure.”

“Then we should away lest some fearsome beast eat us.”

They hobbled back to the house as quickly as they could and calmed their nerves with additional slabs of pie and cups of tea. Thus fortified, curiosity overcame common sense and they set out again, this time armed with a lantern and a broomstick.

As they once again approached the tower entrance, Miss Bunch hesitated. “Perhaps we ought to wait till daylight.”

“Scared, eh? Just whack whatever it is with that broomstick.”

They stood near the open door and there came the high-pitched growl.

“Hmm,” said Miss Bay. “Definitely not your stomach.”

“I told you so.”

“Hmmph.” Miss Bay raised the lantern and peered into the tower. The growling intensified.

“Bay!” Miss Bunch fretted.

Miss Bay clucked and walked inside. “Here now, you stop that growling at once. It is quite impolite.”

Miss Bunch, nervously clutching her broomstick, rushed in to defend her foolish sister against whatever monster threatened them. However, revealed in the light of the lantern was a pup, or rather a wolf cub, curled up beside a small, grimy creature covered in a cloak of indeterminate color. The small creature slept.

“What is it?” Miss Bunch asked.

“A wolf cub, I believe.”

“Not that, which I can see with my own eyes. The other.”

“If I had to guess,” Miss Bay said, “some sort of child. A wild child.”

• • •

They woke the wild child and brought it back to the house, only to discern it was a girl of about eleven or twelve. That was their best guess, at any rate, considering the amount of dirt clinging to her. In a rare instance of impropriety, they did not insist their guest bathe first for they deemed her state of hunger more imperative. They sat her in the kitchen and put before her the remains of their Feast of Vendane supper. The girl ate as greedily as any wild creature, as greedily as the wolf cub that gulped down roast pig trimmings from a pan on the floor.

“Do you suppose they have fleas?” Miss Bay asked.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Miss Bunch replied.

The girl’s hair was a knotted rat’s nest with twigs and leaves and who-knew-what stuck in it. No doubt a good deal of pine pitch. Her face was a mask of dirt, and her clothing, with all its rips and frays, looked as though it could stand on its own.

“The way they’re at it,” Miss Bay said, “they’re both going to regurgitate.” She crinkled her already wrinkly face in a frown. “Letitia will not be pleased.”

“I’ll warrant she’s already displeased by having a wolf in the house. Do you suppose the child was being raised by wolves?”

“Difficult to say,” Miss Bay replied. “She has yet to speak. If she howls, then we’ll know.”

“Perhaps we can ask her. Child, have you been raised by wolves?”

The girl looked up at the sisters, her mouth full of pie. She shook her head.

“She’s a stray,” Miss Bunch whispered to Miss Bay. “Can we keep her?”

“Don’t be silly, Bunch. We do not keep stray children.”

Miss Bunch pouted.

When the girl finally could consume no more, Miss Bay said, “Child, it is time we put you in a bath. Do you know what a bath is?”

The girl nodded.

“Ah,” Miss Bunch said, “she is not entirely uncivilized.”

“Come this way, then,” Miss Bay instructed the child.

The girl nodded and followed them out of the kitchen. When Miss Bunch closed the door on the wolf cub, he howled plaintive puppy howls.

“You will get your turn,” Miss Bunch reassured him through the door. The cub howled unappeased.

“Where are your people?” Miss Bay asked the girl.

She shrugged.

“Have you a mother and father?”

She shook her head. Then, speaking for the first time, she said, “I had my grandmum.”

“You’ve a very sweet voice,” Miss Bay observed, exchanging a significant glance with her sister. “What happened to your grandmama.”

The girl’s expression darkened under the dirt. “The Greenie killed her.”

The sisters exchanged another look, and led the girl into the bathing room.

“Here we are, child,” Miss Bay said. “Letitia has filled the tub with nice hot water. Mind that you remember to scrub behind your ears.”

The girl nodded.

The sisters paused in the doorway, exchanged yet another look, and Miss Bunch said, “Child, we are very sorry you have lost your grandmama. It must be very hard.”

The girl cast her gaze to the floor and tears began to fall down her cheeks leaving runnels in the dirt. Bunch tsked, tsked, and applied a handkerchief to her cheeks. It came away filthy.

“It is very hard to lose the ones we love,” Miss Bunch said, “and our hearts ache for you.”

“I’m gonna kill the Greenie,” the girl replied.

“No doubt that is on your agenda,” Miss Bay replied, “but first you must wash up.”

“Do you have a name, child?” Miss Bunch asked.

“Lala. And my pup’s name is Wolfie.”

“Well, then, Lala,” Miss Bay told her, “we will see you when you’re done. Letitia will lay out a nightgown for you and tonight you’ll sleep in a nice warm feather bed.”

The girl sniffed and wiped away the last of her tears. “Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome.”

The sisters closed the door and repaired to the kitchen. Wolfie jumped up against their legs almost knocking them over.

“Enough of that, pup,” Miss Bay said in a sharp voice. “You are an impolite beast.”

“Perhaps we must needs take him out to do the necessary,” Miss Bunch said, “before he does it on the floor.”

“I quite agree.”

They took their lantern and stepped outside with Wolfie, who dashed about sniffing and urinating on everything.

“Oh, dear,” said Miss Bay. “I do hope our dahlias come back next spring after that dousing.”

They watched the pup sniff around the kitchen yard. Presently Miss Bunch said, “The child’s voice is very familiar.”

“Indeed it is,” Miss Bay replied, “and we’ve heard the story from the new Fiori.”

“I think we should keep her.”

“Bunch—”

“Bay, please, Bay?”

“What do we know of raising a wild child? It could be a rather hazardous endeavor. Very hazardous, I believe. Perhaps we should discuss her intentions with her. I’d prefer she not hare off to kill Green Riders, but I also prefer we not be on her list of vengeance.”

“Kindness can change hearts,” Miss Bunch said. “You know it as well as I. And surely you can see she is no ordinary child.”

“I see it very well, hence my concern. But it is not all I see.” Miss Bay pointed her cane at the sky.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Bunch said as she took in the glimmering new constellation. “The passing of a god—it is a sign.”

“A sign of what,” Miss Bay replied quietly, “is what I wonder.”

FALLING IN A SEA OF STARS

Stevic shifted restlessly in his hammock. Even the gentle sway to the motion of waves could not ease him back to sleep. The odd dream stuck in his mind, and he replayed it over and over, his daughter wearing strange armor that flared and sparked as she fell in a sea of stars.

He took a deep breath and slowly released it. For a time, he lay there and listened to the ship’s song. Every ship had one, and Messenger’s was a light ayre for she was newer and tighter than a large warship or kettle-bottomed merchant. There was an eagerness in her voice as she skimmed across the southern sea like a filly on race day. Despite her speed, the thrum of water on wood was a comforting downbeat to her spritely refrain. Her tone would only deepen and mellow with age.

He gave up trying to sleep and slipped out of his hammock. Sevano’s hammock was slack for he had the night watch.

Stevic fumbled around in the dark and dressed, then headed above deck. The air was cool even though they remained in tropical waters. The sky was wide open and saturated with stars, the River of the Gods a bright ribbon through the heavens.

River of the gods, indeed, he thought. He wasn’t much of a believer.

Above decks the song of the ship was different. The wind hummed through the rigging like the gentle stroke of fingers across harp strings. Sails rustled and waves whispered and plashed against the hull. There was always a drone out on the ocean, a drone of infinite waves rolling from the horizon to unknown shores.

He climbed to the helm where Sevano stood at the wheel.

“Trouble sleeping?” Sevano asked.

“Yep. Thought some fresh air would help. Everything well here?”

“Fair wind,” Sevano replied. “Quiet, the way I like it. It’s as if she barely touches the water at times.”

Stevic smiled at their shared appreciation for a well-crafted ship.

“Stargazer is abreast port.”

Stevic squinted and in the distance barely caught the glint of lanterns. They’d sent Sojourner onward to an island port frequented by Tallitreans where it was hoped the Tallitreans among the captives they had rescued from Varos could find passage home. King Zachary’s agent, Master Hunt, had joined them for reasons undisclosed. They were not likely to see Sojourner again on this journey. “Any sign of our tag-along?”

“Nope, not that I’ve seen, but Aelff’s been keeping an eye out.”

Stevic glanced up toward the crow’s nest. Another unknown ship or ships were tailing them. They remained too far distant to be identified, and at times vanished, seemingly, beyond the horizon.

“Varos doesn’t have anything this fast,” Sevano said.

“No, they don’t.” Neither had to say aloud that it was likely pirates taking a gander at them.

“Gonna need water soon,” Sevano said.

Stevic had matched the charts in his waggoner with the newer ones that had come with the ship, verifying an island with safe fresh water along their course. Stopping to refresh their supply could be dangerous depending on what the pirate opted to do. Fortunately, having been a privateer and pirate himself, Stevic was familiar with their tactics, as was Sevano.

“Quiet Vendane,” Sevano commented.

Earlier, some of the crew had played music and a few danced jigs. Cook put out extra rations of food and drink.

“Doesn’t seem like Feast of Vendane unless it’s gray and cold.” Sacoridia seemed so very far away.

Sevano laughed. “I hear that.”

They stood in silence for a time, enjoying the air and quiet.

“Need a break?” Stevic asked.

“Nah. My watch isn’t much longer.” Sevano then nudged his arm and pointed. “Down by the bow.”

A familiar figure walked along the rail, pausing now and then to gaze over the side into the water.

What the hells was she doing out of bed? Stevic left Sevano to the wheel and marched to the bow where she now leaned precariously over the rail.

“Laren!” he cried in alarm.

She looked his way but did not change her position. “Stevic.” She sounded dismayed to see him.

“Please be careful. If you go over, do you know how unlikely it is we’d find you?”

She flashed a smile. “I’m a good swimmer.”

“Not that good.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He subsided realizing she was just needling him.

“I am being careful,” she said. “I wanted to see the sea light Amina told me about.”

He glanced over the side where a bluish-green glow flowed along the wake line. Superstitious mariners called the phenomenon ghost light. They believed it was the spirits of drowned sailors come to haunt the living and pull the unwary into the depths to crew their dead ships. Stevic was not of a superstitious nature, though he’d known plenty of captains who’d pour a keg of rum into the water at first sight of the luminescence in order to appease the spirits and, more importantly, calm the anxiety of his crew.

“We don’t see this on the river,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

He decided not to tell her the myth behind the ghost light. “It would settle my nerves considerably if you would please not hang over the side like that.”

She gave him a look indicating she thought he was being ridiculous, but obliged. He sighed in relief.

“You let my daughter climb all over the rigging,” she said. “This is nothing.”

“Your daughter follows orders and learned much on our voyage to Varos. She has the makings of an excellent mariner. You may know river running, but the ocean is a different beast. You never know when a rogue wave or sudden wind will turn a smooth-running ship into a wild bucking horse. Besides, you’ve been ill.” He took off his coat and put it around her shoulders so she would not catch a chill. She accepted it without complaint.

Following the removal of the bronze disk that had branded her the property of King Farrad Vir and was used to control her, she’d become ill. She raged with fever, and Roderick, the ship’s mender, believed some agent intentionally bonded into the disk had been released into her body with its extraction, most likely meant to kill any slave who attempted to remove it. The cruelty of the Varosians was endless. Stevic thought they’d lose her after all they’d done to retrieve her, and they nearly had. He was not sure what he would have done if she hadn’t recovered. He’d almost not survived the loss of his wife, Kariny, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to go on if he lost Laren, too.

After Laren had fallen ill, only Amina among the rescued women decided to go through with having her disk brand removed. She, too, suffered, but this time they were prepared and she recovered more swiftly.

“You should be abed,” he chided Laren. In the dark it was difficult to see the ravages of the illness. She was not yet wholly herself.

“As should you,” she countered.

“Yes, but I have not been sick.” As he gazed toward the bow, he could make out part of the head and the shoulder of the figurehead that too much resembled his daughter. Ghost light and starlight glimmered on the swells ahead, and the cobwebs that had obscured his dream fell away.

“Stevic,” Laren said, “what is it?”

He gave a shaky laugh and combed his fingers through his hair. “Remembering a dream I had about Karigan. It’s what woke me up.”

She gazed at him with unexpected intensity. “Tell me.” It was more an order from the colonel than a request from his lover.

He told her and when he finished, she leaned against the rail and looked back out at the water.

“Perhaps I should escort you back to your cabin,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I’m fine, but . . .”

“But?”

“I, too, dreamed of Karigan, and it, too, is what awakened me.”

“What? That’s a strange coincidence.”

“Is it? Coincidence? Events such as these seldom are.”

“Well, I . . . What was your dream?”

She covered her eyes as if trying to recall the images. “She lay on the floor in my cabin. She was in strange armor that glowed just as you described. She reached out to me as though she wanted help, but I couldn’t move. Then she was gone. Gone just like that. It was a dream, but I also felt like I was awake.”

He reached to place his hand on her temple to check for fever, but she batted it away.

“I am not sick,” she said, “and I certainly think it no coincidence.”

“What does it mean, then?” he asked, wondering what his daughter was involved in this time. He dreaded the answer.

“I wish I knew.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Stevic. I know how you worry about her. I learned how hard it is with Melry. When the Darrow Raiders . . .” Her voice broke and she sobbed.

He placed his hand over hers on the rail, unsure if she’d tolerate his touch. He did it as much for his own comfort as hers.

“I was a poor parent after Kariny passed,” he told her, “always away and leaving it to my sisters to raise Kari. I do not deserve the fine young woman she grew into. But now with all she has undergone, I think I am being recompensed in worry a hundredfold for my earlier negligence.”

Laren did not pull her hand away, for which he was relieved. After her enslavement and illness, he hadn’t wanted to push her, but allow her to come around in her own time. They hadn’t even spoken much. Usually she kept in the company of the women they’d rescued with her, or she hadn’t been well enough to leave her cabin. Melry, who was fiercely protective, was often by her side. He still knew very little of what her captivity had been like, and he wasn’t sure he needed to. Only if she wished it.

“There is a lot of you in Karigan,” Laren said with a smile. “A certain brashness that appears in need. Clearly, while your sisters did a wonderful job of raising her, your limited presence made an impression on her.”

“I am afraid brashness is too much a G’ladheon trait. No doubt it’s what gave her the urge to beat up the heir of Mirwell Province and get kicked out of school.”

“No doubt.” There was humor and starlight in her eyes. That was the Laren he missed. “Karigan is strong, Stevic, and if there is something happening with her related to these dreams—”

“Hey, Cap!”

Stevic looked up toward the crow’s nest. He couldn’t see Aelff, just the silhouette of masts and rigging. “What is it, Aelff?”

“The stars, sir! Lookit the stars!”

“What?”

Laren gasped and pointed over his shoulder. “These southern stars still confuse me, but look beneath the Sword of Sevelon.”

Stevic turned. In this part of the world, the sword was turned in the half-raised position. He tried to discern what she was seeing. It took a moment to pick out the stars that shouldn’t be there amid the masses of others in the clear sky.

“What the hells?” he murmured. “I’ve never seen that constellation before.”

“What do you make of it, Cap?” Aelff called down.

“Nothing to worry about, I expect,” Stevic answered, whether or not it was. The last thing he wanted was superstition to overcome the better sense of his crew.

“It kind of resembles a horse galloping across the sky,” Laren said.

“I am not surprised that’s what you’d see,” he replied, but she was right. “What the hells is it doing there? How’d it get there? What does it mean?”

“I don’t know, but it makes me wonder . . .”

“About what?”

She gripped his hand. “It makes me wonder if it has anything to do with our dreams tonight, or if it’s . . .”

“Coincidence?”

She nodded.

“Aren’t you the one who said that events such as these seldom are?”

“Guilty.”

He could not conceive of Karigan having anything to do with a new formation of stars appearing in the heavens, and yet, the appearance of a new constellation was inconceivable in itself. Maybe it was the atmosphere of the wide open sky and sea around them glimmering with ghost light, and the synchrony of them both dreaming of Karigan that made almost anything seem possible at the moment. Even his daughter affecting the order of the cosmos.

ON THE PRECIPICE OF THE HEAVENS

The gray entity stood on the edge of a precipice, overlooking the heavens. The expanse of stars glimmered with clarity and power, among them the newly formed constellation that had been the god-being, Salvistar. Few among his kind, despite their unending lives, had existed long enough to have witnessed the birth of new stars, or their death.

A cord of pulsing magic clung to the entity’s back and anchored him to a layer of the world that was all gray earth and sky and had done so since the shattering that had forced him into exile. In the reckoning of time on the plane of reality, it had been close to six years ago, the shattering, but felt more like a millennium.

He’d pried filaments of etherea from his anchoring cord and coiled them like rope. Upon his exile in the world of gray, he had gathered and hoarded whatever magic he could find. It was dull magic, hard to work, but he was able to remake himself, not as he had been, but as a new version of his form. Far from perfect, it nevertheless gave him a body after a fashion with which to carry out his desires. The cord streaming into his back fed him, held his pieces together, but also imprisoned him. If he tried to leave the gray world for the plane of reality it would snap him back, and to remove it would weaken and unmake him once more.

Inspired by the idea of anchoring, he had created another cord strong enough to penetrate the layers of the world and planted a holdfast in the castle of Sacoridia’s king, allowing him to briefly visit the plane of reality to collect news and spy on Karigan G’ladheon. This cord rooted itself in his chest and fed on his energy in order to remain anchored. Because of the energy required, it limited his ability to manifest fully, giving him an apparition-like appearance.

It was worth it, the ability to move across the worlds, to see the blue of the sky and the colors of the earth, however briefly, and to gather information and spy.

The rope he had made shimmered as it ran across his hands. It would serve a different purpose than the cords that sustained him. He smiled beneath his hood. He could lash it whiplike or tie slipknots to form a noose. If he wished, he could weave it into a net.

He possessed Salvistar’s heart, which was, in truth, Westrion’s, but it was not enough. He also needed the death god’s avatar in order to recover entirely from the shattering and end his exile, so once more he could travel freely between the layers of the world and carry out his desire to return the Earthly plane to an etheric world in which his people had once thrived among their many kingdoms.

His opportunity to repair all that had been lost was nigh for the avatar was falling and falling and falling through the heavens.

He parted his rope into thinner strands to weave them into a net. He would stand on the precipice of the heavens and cast his net among the stars to snare the avatar even as she fell.

DARYS’ CAP

Darys didn’t have to be told what had happened a week ago on the night of Feast of Vendane to feel the tension around castle grounds. His uncle briefed all the grooms about the attack by the wraith creature and that people had died. Rider G’ladheon was missing. At first, the other Riders were optimistic they’d find her alive and well. After all, they said, she had a knack for finding her way home, but as time wore on, they became less sure, and they seemed shaken by Condor’s listless behavior. The gelding refused to eat or drink much and stood with his head low in the back corner of his stall. Rider Harding visited to ensure he didn’t get sick.

Darys shook his head and nailed a new board into place in Gull’s stall to repair the spot where he’d kicked the wall. Gull was out in the pasture grazing while Darys worked. After he tapped the last nail into place, he stood and slapped off the dirt and straw sticking to his trousers and pushed his cap back to gaze in satisfaction at his repair job. In light of all that had happened, he was glad to do ordinary work. “Keep your hands busy,” his da always said, “and it’ll keep you out of trouble.”

After the revelation about Green Riders possessing magic, his uncle had sat him down and explained how dangerous it was for them if word got out even though there was talk going around the city about what some people had seen during the Battle of the Sleeping Waelds, like an army that hadn’t really been there. Still, his uncle had told him, loose talk about Rider magic could cause people to mistrust the king or hurt the Riders. People feared magic, and after a night like Feast of Vendane, Darys could understand why. A new constellation had appeared in the sky that same night and no one knew whether to blame magic or the gods, but some people stood out in the streets yelling about a forthcoming day of doom, an end of days.

“Rider magic is very minor,” Uncle Hep had explained. “Not like the terrible powers you hear about from the Long War days, and not everyone who wielded magic was evil. Many folk, however, can’t tell the difference, or don’t care, and that’s dangerous for the Riders.”

Darys was glad he was just a groom. It made him appreciate simple labor like nailing a board into place or sweeping the floor, and not having to worry about weightier problems.

When he stepped out of Gull’s stall, he was surprised to discover a loose horse down the center aisle standing nose to nose with Condor.

Hells, he thought. Who’d gotten free? Rider horses were very good at opening stall door latches and seemed to do it to amuse themselves. The grooms had to tie down latches if they didn’t want to chase escaped horses.

As he approached the horse, he found he did not recognize it. It was not full grown, that much he could tell. A yearling, perhaps, but quite a handsome colt with a silvery dappled hide, white mane and tail, and stockings as black as midnight. He must have escaped from one of the other stables on castle grounds. Whoever he belonged to would be beside themselves, for he looked to be finely bred.

“Hello, fella,” Darys said. He approached carefully since he did not know the colt’s disposition. He fancied the colt and Condor were conversing in the way of horses, and it was a good sign because it was the first time in a while Condor showed interest in anything or anyone. “Who do you belong to?”

The colt turned his head from Condor to look at Darys. He’d a pretty star on his forehead and long eyelashes, and . . . Darys froze. For a moment he swore one of the colt’s eyes was sky blue with clouds reflected in them. He was overcome by a vision of a meadow in summer with grass as high as his knees. Just as odd, the colt’s other eye was dark like the substance of the heavens with the sparkle of distant stars.

Darys shook his head and realized he was imagining things for the colt’s eyes were an ordinary brown. He chuckled nervously. “I’m seeing things. But aren’t you a fine fella.”

The colt’s coat shone smooth and silken, with underlying muscle that hinted at how he would fill out as he grew. He’d be a very impressive adult horse, indeed.

The colt snuffled his jacket and sneezed. Darys laughed. “Allergic to me, eh?”

The colt shook his mane.

“And look at you making a new friend,” Darys told Condor.

Condor blew softly through his nose.

Darys needed to find a spare halter and lead rope so he could take this youngster to wherever he belonged. “Stay right here,” he told the colt.

No sooner had Darys begun his search when the colt trotted by and extended his lips to snatch the cap right off his head. The colt then bolted down the aisle prancing and bucking and whipping the cap about in a playful manner.

“Hey!” Darys yelled. “Give that back!”

The colt was out the stable doors and into the pasture galloping and rearing and bucking and playing with the cap.

Uncle Hep ran in from the other section of the stables. “What’s the matter?”

“The colt stole my cap.”

“What colt?”

“That—” Darys pointed out the open doors, but the colt was out of sight. He ran outside into the wet and gloomy pasture. Gull lipped at the shriveled autumn grasses, but there was no colt to be seen.

“What colt?” Uncle Hep asked again.

“He . . .” Darys didn’t even see new hoofprints in the mud outside. “I swear. There was a colt.”

A haunted expression flickered across Uncle Hep’s features. He placed his hand on Darys’ shoulder. “You got Gull’s stall fixed?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Well, let’s bring him in, then you and I will take a break and you can explain it all to me over tea and some of your auntie’s muffins.”

“Aye, sir.”

When Darys went to the paddock to fetch Gull, he looked in vain for any sign of the colt, but it was as if he’d never existed.

If the colt had never existed, he thought, where in five hells was his cap?

A HINT OF LIGHT

Zachary stood in the middle of the gray ballroom. Gone were the festive lights and decor of the harvest ball a week ago. The window the wraith had smashed was boarded up. It had taken some time and effort for laborers to remove the wraith’s dead horse. Rain and sleet pattered against the remaining windows.

He gazed all around. But for the one window, and the destruction of a portion of the floor and ceiling by some great force, all evidence of the ball and the wraith’s incursion had been cleared away. The many who had perished had been returned to their families, and the glass, the overturned refreshment tables, and the blood were all gone.

There had been no sign of Karigan since that night except for a medal found by one of the laborers amid the broken shards of glass. It was the one he had bestowed upon her when he raised her to the knighthood. The ribbon that had gone around her neck had snapped. He pulled the medal from his pocket and turned it over in his hand.

Gone a week with no other sign.

She did appear in his dreams. Endlessly she tumbled. Tumbled through the heavens, the stars bright points around her. They were but dreams, dreams of loss.

His counselors conjectured she’d been taken by the wraith, and now she belonged to Mornhavon the Black. He could not believe it, would not, but he knew of no other explanation. The Eletians had refused to speculate, and their visits to the city were few. Her horse Condor seemed to know more than anyone but could not speak. The gelding worried around his stall, barely ate. The Green Riders and grooms were keeping a special watch on him in case his worry led to colic.

How had it all gone wrong? She’d passed on a warning from the aureas narivannis. He’d set an extra guard for the ball, and yet the wraith had made its way through the city and onto castle grounds. Stories continued to flow in of a great dread that had sped through the streets and of gate guards slain. His best trackers, however, had been unable to find it.

The last words he’d given her were to push her away, to tell her to seek love and a life apart from him. To be free. He closed his eyes. How had that made her feel? Confused, perhaps? If it was anything like how he felt saying it, it was an ax cleaving his heart in two.

Empty, soulless, grieving.

“We’ll keep looking,” he murmured. It was the only thing they could do.

“She always returns,” Fastion said.

Zachary looked up at his Weapon, who stood nearby. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. Fastion stood ramrod straight, his expression as stoic as ever.

Karigan’s affiliation with the Weapons was an oddity he still did not understand. They would not discuss it with him, and he’d pored over the books of his expansive library to find out if there were references to the Black Shields taking on “honorary Weapons” in the past, but he’d found none. Did they know something no one else was privy to? One day, he thought, he ought to go out to Breaker Island and browse through their library.

“You sound very sure,” Zachary said.

“She is an honorary Weapon,” Fastion replied, “and she always returns.”

Zachary gazed at him askance, but did not remind him the Weapon motto was, Death is honor.

The wind whistled between the boards covering the broken window. He shivered at the cold air currents that blew inward. Lingering here was of no use. It would not bring her back.

He gazed once more at the ballroom, the damaged diamond patterned tile depicting the legend of Hiroque, Son of the Clans, which looked like an oversized Intrigue board. His footsteps and voice reverberated in the cavernous space. He closed his eyes and recalled the dancing, the two of them together beneath the golden light, the music slow, she looking up at him with that one bright eye of hers, and the other, the one that held the heavens within, concealed beneath its patch.

Wind and sleet now pounded the windows and jarred him from his reverie. He took a final glance at the spot where she’d last been seen near the boarded window. For a moment he thought he saw a flurry of movement in the shadows. He blinked. Nothing. He was about to dismiss it when he saw it again. A fluttering of silver light. He approached cautiously.

“What is it, sire?” Fastion asked.

“I don’t know. I—” There it was again.

He abandoned caution and ran to the spot, Fastion pelting behind him, only to find nothing there.

“My imagination,” he said, hope dying.

Then she was there, lying on her side, armored as the avatar. Her form fluctuated in and out; there, but not quite there.

“Karigan!” he cried. “Do you see her?” he demanded of Fastion.

“A hint of light,” Fastion said, “like a daytime moon.”

She flickered out again.

“Come back, come back, come back,” Zachary cried.

And she did. He fell to his knees beside her and reached for her, Fastion poised to grab him to safety if need be. She raised her hand as though to warn him off. Sparks of energy crackled about the armor. Light bled from wounds in the steel of her breast plate and corrosion spread across it. Her body jerked with arcs of energy dancing on the armor. When her winged helm fell off, her hair spilled out with the feather still bound into its braid. Her cheeks were ghastly pale.

“Please come away, my lord,” Fastion said. “It is not safe.”

Zachary ignored him. “What can I do?” he asked her, desperation in his voice.

She did not reply, only continued to warn him away with her hand, a grimace of agony on her face.

And she vanished.

The helmet disintegrated and left no trace it had ever existed.

“Come back!” he cried, and when she did not after many minutes had passed, he screamed into the dark, empty ballroom, “Come back! Come back to me.” Only the echo of his own voice answered him.

Estora brought reinforcements with her to the ballroom, consisting of Donal, Drent, Captain Connly, and three Eletians, for Zachary would not leave. They found him sitting in a chair staring at the spot where he had last seen Karigan. He’d been there overnight and showed no signs of moving.

“My lord,” she said, “it is time you left so you can attend to the needs of your people.”

He looked up at her, haggard lines scribed across his forehead. “What if she reappears? I must keep watch.”

“I have brought help,” she replied. “The Weapons, the Riders, and the Eletians will keep watch on your behalf.”

“I wish to be here,” he said, “in case she comes back.”

“My lord, I understand fully,” she replied. “I understand more than perhaps you know.” And, indeed, she did. The connection between Zachary’s and Karigan’s souls was breaking him, and that was a problem for the realm. “There is a new constellation in the sky and it is causing turmoil among your people, for they do not understand its significance. Prime Brynston and his priests insist on speaking with you, and even I have not been able to placate them. Alarm and rumors are spreading about the incursion of the wraith.

“Karigan would not want you to lose sight of the work that needs to be done because of her. Everything she has done has been in service to the realm, and at great sacrifice. It would be a dishonor to all she has achieved to neglect your duties thus.”

She spoke boldly and any other king might have punished her for it, but the last seemed to get through to him. She added, “We have children now, you and I, and we must continue the fight to ensure they inherit a safe future.”

Anger now sparked in his eyes, which meant she had been successful.

“I need no lectures to know my duty and the sacrifices she has made on our behalf,” he said. “I know perhaps better than most what she has endured.” He stood and turned to Donal and Drent. “What is the plan for the watch?”

“There will always be a Weapon and Rider on watch here,” Drent said, “rotating at four-hour intervals.”

“And three Eletians, as well,” Telagioth said, “for she is our Dama and we are anxious to have her back.”

Zachary nodded his agreement to them. To Donal he said, “You will add me to the watch roster.”

“Yes, sire.”

His expression was grim as he left the ballroom with Estora. He would not thank her for this, she knew, but sometimes, the larger issues demanded one to do uncomfortable things.

She accompanied him throughout the day, including a ride through the city to help reassure the populace, and he maintained his regular schedule. To all others he was his usual self, but she detected a sharpness, an edge of danger to his presence. It never came closer to the surface as when Prime Brynston came before them in the throne room.

It was Brynston’s way to instruct. He was, after all, a priest, but she had to admit, for all he was her friend, his manner could be rather arrogant.

“A new constellation has arisen in the sky, my lord, and this is no ordinary occurrence,” Brynston said.

“I noticed,” Zachary replied.

“Of course, Your Majesty. My astrologers possess no record of such a thing happening before.”

“Nor do my star masters.” Notably Zachary did not consult astrologers. “What is your point, Prime Brynston?”

“It is a sign. A sign of what, we can’t divine, but we should be prepared for great catastrophe. People are anxious. As priests, we are among the people all the time—” suggesting Zachary was never among his people, “—and they are extremely worried. They speak in the streets of the coming doom.”

“Perhaps because that it is what you tell them to expect. If you altered your message, they would not panic. When I went among them this afternoon, we were able to reassure a good many.”

But Brynston would not be swayed. “There are other signs—the arrival of Eletians, and the intrusion of the wraith creature. Signs of evil.”

Zachary stood. From the top of the dais he towered over Brynston and was fully the king. The air turned chill as he stared for long moments at the luin prime. When he spoke, it was with a cutting edge. “This is not the first time this castle has been attacked by the minions of Mornhavon the Black. They were routed and the realm did not fall to its doom. As for the Eletians, their presence speaks only as a sign of our alliance in defeating Mornhavon.”

“One could interpret,” Brynston said, “that something about this castle is cursed.”

Brynston’s bold words to Sacoridia’s high king shocked Estora and she tensed in anticipation of Zachary’s furious response.

“After all,” Brynston continued, “I have heard about the Eletians venerating one of your Green Riders, made her a princess or some such. Eletians are heathens. They know not the gods, and they are of magic. Anathema. Heretical. These things would well displease the gods.”

The explosion Estora expected from Zachary did not materialize. Rather, he laughed, which was worse.

“You forget that the gods gifted our people with magic,” he said. “Those who relished power committed genocide of magic users after the Long War by declaring all magic evil even though this was not true. They did not want anyone to have what they perceived as an advantage over them, so they branded the magic evil and murdered innocents in the name of the gods.”

“I do not agree with your interpretation,” Brynston began. “It—”

“Silence.” Zachary’s gaze grew deadly and was a reminder of who ruled here. “I was not finished.”

Brynston bowed deeply. It was, Estora thought, more performative than an act of contrition.

“I doubt the gods care about the absence or presence of Eletians in this castle,” Zachary said. “If you find them so very offensive, then I recommend you stay clear of them. They are emissaries from a sovereign realm that happens to be a longtime ally of Sacoridia and will continue to be honored and welcomed as such.”

Estora was relieved he did not address the part about Karigan’s Eletian status.

Zachary extended his hand to her. “My lady, shall we move on with our day?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, still stunned by the exchange she had witnessed.

They stepped down the dais steps.

“Good day, Luin Prime,” Zachary said, walking by him and his priests.

“But what of the constellation?” Brynston asked.

“My star masters call it the Great Horse,” Zachary said without pausing.

Estora hoped Brynston would leave it at that, but he did not. “One hears rumors of magic users in your court.”

Zachary halted.

Oh, no, Estora thought.

Zachary turned to face the luin prime. His expression on the surface was pleasant, but she could sense him bristling with anger. “Perhaps, Prime Brynston,” he said, “one of your station should beware rumors and speculation. Should magic be present in my court, or in any other part of Sacoridia, then it is as the gods intend and we should celebrate it.”

He set off again, and she beside him, toward the private exit with Donal and Fastion escorting them. Brynston, however, was not finished. He spoke softly, but the nature of the throne room was such that it carried his poisonous words to them: “Magic is a mark of deviance born of the hells that must be cleansed before it corrupts all, including in this very court.”

Raw fury burned in Zachary’s eyes but he chose not to dignify the luin prime with a response.

The rift between throne and chapel, Estora thought as she followed him through the door, had widened so much she feared it irreparable. Had she not fallen in love with a Green Rider, she might have come to believe as ardently as Brynston about magic. Fortune would have that she did not, but she feared what difficulties, what danger, the beliefs of Sacoridia’s foremost priest would present to Green Riders.

MUSIC AND SILENCE

The avatar tumbled amid a sea of stars, falling and falling and falling. Alone in silence. She could not remember her name or purpose, or what she was, and nothing of existence. Perhaps she was ice, a remnant of a dead comet set adrift in the great dark.

And yet, she remembered music, the gleam of jewels and the beautiful gowns of ladies and how dancers flowed and twirled. Golden light, the rise and fall of the dance. The warmth of a man who held her, the light upon his face as he looked down at her.

One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, the rising and falling rhythm of the dance.

Darkness. So much darkness. The glow of numinous vapor bled from her wounded armor in a plume. She was a star, a falling star bleeding light.

The man. He had looked at her with concern. She flickered between his reality and her own nonexistence. She had wanted to reach out to him, wished for nothing more than his touch, but allowing him to touch her would have destroyed him.

One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three

Spinning on the dance floor, spinning through the heavens. Music and silence.

• • •

She came to rest upon the landing of a crystalline staircase. Seemingly not far off, seven stars in the shape of a sword glistened with the tip pointed nearly in a downward position.

Winter. The word came to her unbidden, though she could not recall what a winter was.

Her armor crackled as it died. She felt the jolt from within and knew only pain. A tall figure descended the stairs toward her, a cloak flowing behind. The figure, clad in some ancient armor, halted on the step above her. Male or female or neither, she could not discern. It did not matter.

The being gazed down at her. “Avatar, you should not be here.”

“What is avatar? Where is here?”

“You are the host of Westrion, god of death. The death of Salvistar has weakened him, and his heart stolen. In his disarray he has abandoned you.” The being sighed. “Serving the gods is no easy task. This I know all too well. ‘Here’ is the staircase to the heavens mortal souls ascend after the passing of their physical forms. You’ve not parted from yours. It is not your time.”

“Time?”

The being remained silent as they stared at her. Finally, they said, “Touch the feather in your hair, then you will know.”

“What is a feather?”

The being made an exasperated sound and reached down to grab her wrist. The being’s hand was cold pain and she gasped. They guided her hand to a thing that hung from—

“Feather,” she said.

“Yes,” the being replied. “Memory.”

Knowledge and some memories poured in, though much remained distant and intangible. “I am the avatar.” It sounded strange coming from her own lips and it would take a while to recall all the implications.

The being stood above her with their fists on their hips. “I imagine your knowledge and memories will remain rudimentary for a time. For your sake, I hope it is temporary.”

Stars near and distant pinged and chimed with cutting clarity.

“Who are you?” the avatar asked.

“I am the warden of the stairs. I was, and I am, called Sevelon.”

“The sword is yours,” she murmured, glancing toward the seven-starred constellation.

“Yes. Do you see the new constellation up above? Salvistar has transformed.”

Her steed. No, Westrion’s. Slain by evil. More memory presented itself and she cried out in grief at the great stallion’s passing.

“For Westrion’s avatar, you are quite shortsighted,” Sevelon said. “Salvistar is transformed, reborn. See how he gallops across the heavens.”

She gazed at the constellation and how the shape of the horse filled around it and seemed to run.

“He has become,” Sevelon continued, “his true essence.”

A tear frozen into a bead of ice glided down the avatar’s cheek.

“You do not belong here,” Sevelon said. “Not just yet.”

A charge of energy burst through the avatar’s armor, jolting her body.

Sevelon shook their head, and with their toe, nudged the avatar off the landing. The void of the heavens swallowed her scream as she bumped down the crystalline staircase. She was too weak to stop herself. Another discharge of her armor’s death energy carried her away.

One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, and . . .

• • •

. . . turn

F’ryan Coblebay was telling her stories. “I couldn’t go to the big royal balls, of course, being just a common messenger and all, and if anyone found out about Estora and me?” He shook his head. “It would have been very bad for her. To begin with, she’d have been disowned by her family.”

The avatar craned her neck and looked about. She lay on a roadside and F’ryan sat on a stump. Somehow, she had known him. And yet, wasn’t he dead?

“After the annual spring ball,” he continued, “the Riders held a surprise secret ball for us in Rider stables.”

Freezing rain and sleet cascaded down from a clouded sky. It bounced off her armor, stung her cheeks. She raised her hand to shield her face, but bright energy crackled down her arm and she cried in pain.

F’ryan remained oblivious to the weather. The rain and sleet simply fell through him, and he carried on as if caught in a reverie, unaware of her agony, his manner distant. “I have never seen such beauty as Estora in that gown in the candlelight. How one so perfect could love one such as me, I will never know.” He looked wistful, then grinned. “The horses enjoyed the whole affair and wore ribbons in their manes. And who knew the captain was such a dancer?”

She tried to sit up but could not. Frozen leaves crunched beneath her as sleet continued to fall. Where was she? She touched the feather and remembered. She recognized the particular curve of the road, the stump F’ryan sat on.

“This is where it all began,” she murmured.

He looked down at her as if just noticing her, eyes otherworldly dark and glittering. “Or ended, depending on your point of view.”

. . . a horse and rider staggered onto the road. The rider, clad in a green uniform, half-dismounted, half-fell from the horse, two black shafted arrows impaled in his back.

“How is it I am talking to you now?” she asked.

“You tell me,” he said. “You are the death god’s avatar. Happily I never held that honor, though a few who have worn our brooch have.”

She struggled to rise again but only managed to prop herself on one elbow. “It is not something I want.”

“Unfortunately, we are seldom rewarded with that which we desire. Estora was never destined to be mine no matter our love.” His expression was immeasurably sad. “You, however, have done well, Rider G’ladheon.”

G’ladheon. She considered the name. It sounded familiar.

“You have done better,” he continued, “than any of us could have imagined despite the circumstances that made you a Green Rider, though I doubt it was any coincidence we met on this road that day. Know that I am very proud of you.” His form blurred. The road and woods stretched out in her vision, and his voice faded. “Tell Estora I love her and tell her one day we shall dance again among the stars.” Her vision dimmed, and his final words came to her: “And do take good care of my horse, eh?”

She hurtled through the heavens again like a volatile comet as the dying protections of her armor flared with tiny explosions, a dance of forces that pushed and pulled and spun her. If the armor of the avatar failed her entirely, she who was the vessel of the death god would surely cease to exist.

I am Rider G’ladheon, she thought. Not only an avatar. Without her the avatar would not exist. What would happen if the avatar failed?

—three, and turn

• • •

She lay in a rectangle of stone like an oversized bathtub. She knew exactly where she was, and the inscription at her feet confirmed it.

Regna Solis

Regna Luin

Estora of Coutre

Queen of Sacoridia

Beloved of Zachary I

She recalled that this was not the first time she had lain in Queen Estora’s unfinished sarcophagus, and right next to it was Zachary’s with—

An unseen block and tackle strained and creaked as the solid stone lid directly above was slowly lowered. The light darkened.

No! she cried. I’m here! I’m not dead!

No one responded.

She screamed as it got darker and darker, and still no one heard her. She was unable to move or help herself. The lid scraped into place and she was trapped in total darkness.

Nooo!

Death, suffocation, silence, and the end of light was the answer to her question of what would happen should the avatar and her armor fail.

—turn

She struggled to retain awareness as she tumbled through the stars, struggled to retain sanity.

Falling, falling, one-two-three

A greave disintegrated from her leg, diminishing the protections that kept her mortal self intact and alive.

One-two, one-two!

• • •

The stars streaked by and she soared by mountains like the great eagles she saw far above her. She swept through many scenes of shoreline and hill and vast woodland, glimpsed the faces of people she thought she knew. Her father? Tired and careworn as he tossed and turned in a hammock. And the woman with red hair, a captain? Colonel? waking in her bunk. The moonlit ocean glimmered through a window and across the woman’s face as she stared directly back at the avatar.

Do you see me? Help me! the avatar thought, for her voice failed her. She reached out but was ripped away again, sparks spitting off her armor through the dark of the heavens. Her limbs jerked uncontrollably as more protections died.

She fell and fell until suddenly caught, caught in a net of pulsing energy that halted her descent and held her suspended. The silhouette of a figure stood above her in a rectangle of light like an open doorway in the great dark and hauled her in. The doorway grew larger as she drew closer, and finally she was dragged over the threshold.

She lay there panting, now more Karigan G’ladheon than avatar, though much remained missing from her memory. The familiar setting of a ballroom surrounded her. After having been tossed about in time and space, she was back where she had started.

However, when she looked more closely, the ballroom was not quite the same as the one she had left.

THE DARK BALL

The skeleton decorations that hung above twitched and rattled on their strings. They were not, however, as she remembered, the small wooden representations of human skeletons. No, these were the real skeletons of rodents and birds and bats, and other small creatures with bits of feather and dried sinew clinging to their bones.

Cobwebs fluttered from chandeliers. Remnants of food moldered on the refreshment tables. Everything was cast in murky gray light. On the floor around her lay clumps of rumpled fabric.

This is all wrong, she thought. It’s all wrong.

Discordant music began, played by musicians hidden in the shadows. Candles in the chandeliers magically flared with light, then subsided to a feeble, cold glow, leaving much obscured in deep gloom.

The piles of fabric rose, rose into emaciated figures in ragged gowns and longcoats. Their dance moves were not elegant or smooth, but jerky, grotesque. She attempted to crawl out of the way, but she was too weak to move. They trampled and kicked her as they promenaded about the ballroom floor. She threw her arms over her head to protect it. Armor still shielded some of her body, but not all, and it was continuing to deteriorate with painful shocks and jolts to her body. It was a nightmare.

Home, I want to go home.

The dancers leered down at her, unblinking with rictus grins plastered on their gaunt faces. They were caricatures of the harvest ball. The tempo of the shrieking music picked up and boney hands reached for her. They dragged her to her feet. She was pushed and jostled and thrown from one dancer to the next. She grew lightheaded and was unable to resist.

They avoided, she noticed, touching her armor.

The music died, and the dancers mobbed her and pushed and dragged her to the center of the ballroom. Her vision darkened as consciousness fled.

“Let me go,” she said. “Let me go.”

• • •

There were no stars; she’d not been whisked off through the heavens. She awakened disoriented, and sweat slipped down her face. A familiar jolt of pain shot through her body.

Fainted. I fainted.

She lay prone on the ballroom floor. It was silent. The dancers were gone, but it was not home. The animal skeletons hung above as before. The atmosphere remained dull, gray.

She gasped at stabbing agony that ran up and down her leg as the other greave disintegrated.

“Is it unpleasant as your armor dies?” someone whispered. “Like the peeling off of your own skin?”

Startled, she looked up. Seated on a thronelike chair was a figure draped in gray, his face hidden in the shadows of his hood.

“Who—?” she began, gritting her teeth against another wave of pain.

“Did you not enjoy my ball? No? A pity. It was for the occasion your people call Feast of Vendane. As I understand, there are two aspects to that particular celebration, and you can see which one I chose.”

Famine. It was sickening.

“It would seem,” he whispered, “you are no longer the runaway schoolgirl. You’ve changed, grown, taken on some intriguing roles. Avatar to a god, no less.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

He stood, walked around her, his boots sounding out a slow, rhythmic tap. “I’m afraid I am the one who broke the pretty glass dome in your castle.”

The gray entity. But who or what was the gray entity?

“You’ve rescued a queen-to-be, traveled deep into Blackveil Forest and survived. You’ve visited past and future, survived brutal torture and battle. No, not your average schoolgirl.”

She tried to rise but had not the strength. “Who the hells are you? What do you want?”

“Have you not figured it out? It is not our first meeting, and not even our second.” The sound of footsteps faded, and he knelt before her, his face still hidden in the depths of his hood. “I thought you might have figured it out by now, but you are not yourself quite yet, are you? Half-avatar, half-Galadheon.”

He reached toward her, and his sleeve fell away from his hand to reveal it was . . . It was like glass that had been shattered and reassembled into a mosaic. Each fragment hung in the air unbound yet held the shape of his hand. He touched the feather of the winter owl in her hair, and recoiled.

He gave a breathy laugh. “And you have taken up with Eletians. Very unusual their king has adopted you.”

Another surge of energy crackled through her remaining armor making her cry out.

“Who are you?” she demanded again, panting. “What do you want?”

“Ah, yes, I recall you do not like games. You are stubborn and would prefer a stalemate to an acceptable win. You are the unexpected player.”

A dawning dread began to overcome her. “It can’t be. It’s impossible.”

“Is it?” He drew back his hood. Like his hand, his face was a mosaic that skewed his features, but she knew the azure eyes, the gold hair.

Shawdell. The Gray One. The breaker of the D’Yer Wall who had worked with old Lord Mirwell and Prince Amilton to stage a coup and murder Zachary. But Shawdell had wanted more. He had wanted all the etherea of Blackveil Forest, tainted or not, to flow into the larger world. She thought he’d gone forever when she defeated him. Dead. Shattered.

“Yes,” he said. “I would have thought the ball gave it away. We danced well together once, you and I.”

“How? How are you here?”

“Did you think me so easy to kill? I am, however, somewhat . . . changed. You did this to me.”

“I’d do it again,” she said, “and finish the job.”

He grabbed her chin and the sharp edges of his fingers cut into her skin. “Such bold words from one who is weakening by the moment. Soon that armor the gods clad you in will die and you will be in my power. Completely. I will have what you would not give me before, and more.”

“Why would you—” She tried to jerk her head away, but it only caused his fingers to cut deeper into her flesh.

The avatar’s blade would not come to hand for the same reason her armor was dying, but she still had Telagioth’s sheathed at her side. Shawdell, however, seemed to know her thoughts and seized the sword before she could. He gazed at it long and hard.

“Fine Eletian make,” he said. “Forged probably five thousand years ago. It is marked by Arhodil, its maker.” He showed her a rune on the blade beneath the guard. “One of the best, an old lord of Avrath, just as the sword’s owner is. Telagioth, yes?”

She did not answer, her mind a maelstrom of revelation that mired her ability to plan an escape. She was so weak. She—

He lowered the tip of the blade to her eyepatch and lifted it, revealing her mirror eye and causing dagger pain to stab into it.

“Ah,” Shawdell said. “This is why my sire and grandsire were so eager to adopt you. Perhaps I should cut it out and make it mine, but whether it would survive and remain useful without its host? Uncertain. So I will not carve it out. Yet. Besides, I will have you as I wished during our fateful game of Intrigue.”

A flash of memory came to her, of them caught in the white world, or the Blanding as some called it, a transitional place outside the plane of reality, a table before them bearing a game of Intrigue. She’d been thrust into the role of Triad, the unexpected player.

“Do you even know what it is you bear in your eye?” he asked her.

“I’ve an idea.” She jerked her head out of his grip, slicing more skin, but the eyepatch snapped into its usual place.

One of her gauntlets crackled and arced, and disintegrated off her hand. It felt like a thousand bees stinging her. Her consciousness ebbed again.

“A matter of time,” Shawdell said, “and the armor will die completely, and you will be all mine. A matter of—”

A surge of power exploded through the armor and gushed from the rent steel. It carried her into the stars, and the last thing she heard was Shawdell wailing, “Nooo!”

A GIFT UNTO HERSELF

“She’s adapted very well,” said Horse Master Riggs, “and quickly.”

Anna was pleased and patted Maddie’s neck. They stood in the center aisle of Rider stables where the mare was hooked up to the crossties waiting to be untacked. She pinned her ears back at Anna’s touch, but it was more out of habit, Anna believed, than threat. Since the advent of her new eye, incidents of kicking and biting had decreased. However, everyone remained sensibly wary around her.

Anna loosened the girth and removed the saddle, and set it over the door to Maddie’s stall. Horse Master Riggs had put them through their paces to find out how Maddie’s restored vision on her formerly blind side affected her when being ridden. Anna and the horse master had agreed there was much improvement in Maddie’s temperament and confidence.

“She’s filled out nicely, too,” Horse Master Riggs said. “She’s a real beauty.”

Anna had to agree. Maddie had been quite the sorry nag when she was rescued from the knacker, but now she appeared a finely bred saddle horse fit for a lord or lady.

“Good work today, both of you,” Horse Master Riggs said, and she bade them farewell.

Anna brushed Maddie down, feeling very pleased with the horse master’s approval, and returned Maddie to her stall.

“I got something for you,” Anna said, and removed a wrinkled apple from her pocket that a friend of hers in the kitchens had retrieved from winter stores for her. It was bruised and mealy, but Maddie liked it and nickered for more when she finished.

“That’s all for today,” Anna told her. “You were a good girl.”

There’d been no new incidents among the Green Rider horses akin to Maddie growing a new eye, but Anna knew Hep and the grooms, and the Riders themselves, remained vigilant.

Down the aisle, poor Condor churned in a circle in his stall. She went over to take a look. When she stopped at his stall, he halted and gazed at her for a moment, then turned to stand with his head in the corner.

Darys ambled over and leaned against the door beside her. “He’s been doing that off and on all day.”

“Poor Condor,” she murmured.

The gelding wasn’t the only one who missed his Rider. Night of Aeryc had come and gone and winter was in full swing, and there was still no sign of Karigan. She’d been missing for over a month. Her friends were giving up hope, and others had already decided she wasn’t coming back. Captain Connly was clearly of the mind the Riders needed to move on. They had enough regular duties to keep them busy without maintaining a vigil in the ballroom. She’d overheard him and Lieutenant Mara arguing about it. They compromised, allowing Riders to keep watch when they were off duty if they wished, but the formal watches were curtailed. King Zachary had not countermanded his order.

For Anna’s part, the absence of someone she looked up to was hard, especially on top of Colonel Mapstone’s abduction by the Varosians.

“Any sign of that colt?” Anna asked.

“Nope,” Darys replied. “Nor my cap. It was my favorite.”

“Maybe it’ll turn up,” Anna said.

“Like Rider G’ladheon?”

“You are equating your cap with Karigan?” she snapped.

“Nah, not what I meant. It’s just strange when people and things disappear like that. I tell you one thing, if that colt shows up again, I’m gonna give him a piece of my mind. My da gave me that cap special.”

“Sorry,” Anna said. “I shouldn’t have bitten your head off.”

“I understand. Everyone’s been on edge lately.”

• • •

The wind blew bitter around Anna as she walked toward the castle from stables. The snow was not deep, but Tegan predicted more to come.

She shoved her hands into her pockets and bent her head against the wind, and reflected that though her captain had given up on Karigan, she wasn’t ready to. The king certainly was not, either. If there weren’t so many rumors swirling about Lady Winterlight being betrothed, other rumors would be circulating about her and the king. No one seemed to know to whom Lady Winterlight was betrothed, though Lord Penburn’s name came up often enough. True or not, the news of betrothal was actually a good cover that shielded Karigan and King Zachary from salacious gossip.

Anna did not know the truth of the matter, but one thing was certain: King Zachary loved Karigan and that was why he did not give up on her.

Once she was back in the castle, Anna fetched soup and tea from the kitchens for Brandall, Gil, and Tegan. They were all miserable with head colds. Fevers and colds would plague the castle all winter as they always did, and Anna helped her ill fellow Riders when she could.

That done, she decided to go to the ballroom. She had no further duties for the day. She checked in with Lieutenant Mara first to make sure no unexpected message errands were required, and then was on her way.

In the ballroom she found, as usual, three Eletians keeping watch. On previous vigils she had enjoyed speaking with them and listening to their songs. They tried to teach her some, but she couldn’t seem to wrap her tongue around the Eltish words.

Today, Telagioth, Lhean, and Enver were present. Enver sat on the floor, legs crossed and eyes closed. He seemed to be in some sort of meditative state. She had not seen him here often. Telagioth spoke quietly with Fastion. King Zachary commanded the Weapons to retain watch even if he saw the necessity to release the Riders to their usual duties.

To her surprise, Captain Connly was there seated at a table across from Lhean beside the great hearth, which crackled with low flames and warm glowing embers. Apparently he was teaching Lhean a card game. He shuffled his deck and looked up.

“Ah, Anna, have you come to sit for a while?”

“Yessir,” she replied, still surprised to see him.

“Very well.” He stood and told Lhean, “We will have to take this up another time.”

Lhean bowed his head.

On his way out, the captain paused by Anna and said, “It is good of you to come. I’d stay, but now that you’re here, we’ve a Rider presence and I’ve other work to attend to.”

She watched him stride toward the stairs, then took his place at the table. Lhean attempted to shuffle the cards the captain had left him. In fact, his fingers were nimble and he mastered it almost immediately.

“How are you today, Rider Anna Ash?” he asked.

“Very well, sir.” She told him about her riding lesson and how Maddie was doing. On previous watches she had given him the story of the mare’s background.

“It is a gift you have given her,” Lhean said. “A second life, one filled with kindness and purpose.”

“I think the good natures of the other horses are rubbing off on her.”

“Ah, but it was humans who abused her, yes?”

Anna nodded.

“You are showing her another way and she feels safe with you. Well cared for. The hearts of horses are great, and I do not doubt she will give as much or more as your willing companion and partner. Now, will you teach me this card game the captain calls Knights?”

She was dealing a second hand when King Zachary entered the ballroom. She jumped to her feet and bowed as he swept by.

“Rider,” he murmured.

The Eletians, except for Enver who remained in his trance, also bowed. The king took his customary seat facing the boarded window under which Karigan had last been seen.

Fastion and Telagioth moved to speak with him. With the king’s presence, the atmosphere became less relaxed, at least for Anna. After all, he was the king, the most important person in all the realm. Also, his demeanor was always so serious it seemed wrong to laugh or sing or speak loudly.

Few were allowed to enter the ballroom, only the watchers. The purpose of the king’s time here was kept quiet. In this, the Eletians made a convenient excuse, that he was in secret meetings with Sacoridia’s allies.

He was unable to come as often as he wished, she knew, because he had a kingdom to run. To her surprise, sometimes the queen accompanied him and sat quietly by his side as he brooded. Anna did not understand the dynamic between the king, queen, and Karigan.

She sank back into her chair and gazed at Lhean as he shuffled the cards. If she’d heard right, he’d been with Karigan on the mission into Blackveil and had gotten drawn into the future with her. She had really wanted to ask him about it but felt that it was not her place to ask such questions of important dignitaries.

He glanced up at her. “Your eyes are full of questions, Rider Anna Ash.”

“It’s just Anna,” she replied. “And yes, I have many questions, but it would be discourteous of me to ask them.”

“Ah, but now I am intrigued. If you do not ask the questions, how do you learn?”

Anna didn’t know how to answer that. “I’m a common messenger and the likes of me shouldn’t ask such questions.”

“Now I am even more intrigued. And you think yourself a common messenger? I find the Green Riders most uncommon after having spent time among them. Tell me, what do you wish to know?”

With his permission granted, she replied, “Is it true you were on the Blackveil expedition and ended up in the future time with Karigan? What was it like?” These were questions she had dared not ask even Karigan. “And why do some people have magic and not others? I’d also like to know more of what Eletia is like. Those are just for starters.”

He looked up and smiled. “Yes, it is true. I was a member of the Blackveil expedition and was sent into the future with our Dama. Of the future I can say little for our presence there has not yet happened, and may not, depending on the course of events in the present. One cannot remember what has not happened. It is the same for our Dama. I have a sense that if this future comes to pass, it will be a very bad thing, not good for an Eletian.”

“It must be very confusing,” she said, “to have experienced something that hasn’t happened yet.”

“Eletians are not as linear-minded as humans,” he replied, “so I am unbothered by the paradox. As for Kanmorhan Vane, which you call Blackveil Forest, there are some things I wish I could not remember.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” She’d gone and done it, and blundered into asking a question she had no right to.

“No need to be sorry. Perhaps some day that story will be spoken of in the brightest of days once Mornhavon the Black is fully defeated, but for now, they are not best spoken of. As for your question about why some people have magic and others not? I am not acquainted enough with the human world to have the appropriate answers, except to ask, why does one person have brown hair, and another black? Why might one be gifted with the ability to create art, and another to build great walls?”

“You don’t think it is because the person with magic is more special?” asked Anna, who had been an ash girl, an ordinary castle servant, before Colonel Mapstone allowed her to become a Green Rider despite her lack of magical ability.

He tilted his head as if reading more into her question. “To possess magic is a gift,” he replied, “as is music, art, poetry. It is an innate attribute born into a person. Magic is part of nature like the air we breathe, the color of our eyes. And sometimes, a person herself is the gift. A gift unto others, much like yourself, Anna Ash.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“You are special. You may have no magic, but you are a gift to all who know you.”

Before she could question him further, Enver leaped to his feet, a wild look in his eyes, and cried out. She twisted around in her chair and saw the king also jump to his feet.

Everyone stared at the spot beneath the window, but she could see nothing.

“What’s happening?” she asked Lhean.

His gaze was intense as he looked past her. “I believe our Dama is returning.”

DARKNESS AND STARS

Anna looked but could not see whatever it was that the king and the Eletians saw at the spot beneath the boarded window. She glanced at Donal and Fastion who moved closer to the king. They wore perplexed expressions but looked ready to leap into action, no matter what.

She edged closer. A flutter, a shimmer of light.

“Karigan!” King Zachary cried. He knelt near the spot.

Enver stepped closer, his body tense and expression avid.

A figure flickered into existence. And then out. Hope rose in Anna. It had to be Karigan trying to come back.

The figure reappeared, crumpled on her side wearing strange armor, though sections were missing.

“Karigan,” the king said. He dropped to his knees beside her and reached for her.

“No,” she said in a strained voice. “Dangerous.”

And she vanished once more.

Anna could not see the king’s face, but he seemed to quiver. Everyone stood unmoving where they were, waiting. Anna had to remind herself to breathe. They waited and waited, but Karigan still did not return.

“I’ve lost her,” the king said. “I’ve lost her.” Then he whispered, “Please come back.”

Darkness fell early in winter and the shadows deepened in the ballroom. She glanced at Lhean. He looked a little less sure, though Enver’s attitude had not seemed to change.

“There!” cried Fastion, pointing.

The figure of Karigan sputtered back into existence. Armor disintegrated from her legs.

“Stay away,” she warned the king. “The danger—”

“My lord—” Donal began.

He listened to neither of them and threw himself over her. They both flashed out of existence. A look of horror crossed Fastion’s face. No one moved, no one seemed to know what to do. The king was gone.

When they reappeared, the king had his arms wrapped around Karigan. “—got you! I’ve got you!”

Enver was only a hair faster than Fastion who threw himself on them both as if to anchor them, but even then they faded. Donal fell to his knees and grabbed the king’s ankles. The fading stopped.

“I won’t let you go again,” the king whispered to Karigan.

“He has saved her,” Lhean murmured. “He has saved her.”

Fastion removed himself from them. Enver, too, but he did not move far.

The king sat there on the floor with a limp Karigan cradled to his chest. The armor was all gone. She was dressed in the fancy longcoat the Eletians had given her with the gold sash, same as she’d been attired for the ball. She did not move or speak. Was she even alive?

“I won’t let you go,” the king murmured to her again and again. “I won’t let you go.”

Anna took a deep breath. The ballroom seemed cast under a spell and its occupants turned into silent statues. Well, she thought, someone needed to move and get practical. She ran up the stairs and out the entryway where a pair of Green Foot runners were stationed.

“Sasha,” she said to one, “go to the menders and fetch Ben Simeon. He’s needed immediately. Tell him it’s Karigan.” She turned to the other. “Fenley, go to Captain Connly right away and tell him the same.”

They set off without question.

She returned to the ballroom and started lighting a few wall sconce lamps to stave off the dark. Then she tended the fire in the big hearth, stirring the embers and throwing on more wood, because surely the king did not need to catch a chill sitting on the floor like that, nor Karigan, if she was alive.

Anna’s experience as an ash girl resulted in a very fine blaze and the bleakness of the room dissipated. It brought more color into everyone’s cheeks, save Karigan’s.

Enver hovered over Karigan and the king. Telagioth and Lhean had moved to either side of him as though to restrain him, if need be.

Oh, dear, she thought, there was much more going on than she understood.

Telagioth then knelt beside the king and Karigan. He placed his hand against her cheek.

“Dama,” he said quietly.

Was it Anna’s imagination, or did a little color return to her face?

“Dama,” Telagioth said, followed by some words in Eltish.

Anna turned to Fastion and Donal. “You two need to help.” They exchanged glances, then looked at her questioningly. She reined in a flash of annoyance. “Your king is on the floor. Help him up. Menders are on the way and we can meet them instead of just waiting.”

Her words seemed to snap them awake. They helped the king rise while still holding Karigan. He would not allow anyone else to take her.

“I’ve got you,” he continued to murmur to her. “I won’t let you go. Ever.”

Anna’s cheeks warmed at witnessing her king in so vulnerable a state, his love for Karigan fully unveiled. Then he was off, carrying Karigan across the ballroom and bounding up the stairs as though her weight was of the air itself. Donal and Fastion scrambled to keep up, and Anna followed behind. She glanced over her shoulder to witness Telagioth and Lhean restraining Enver. She didn’t think she wanted to know what that was all about.

They didn’t get far from the ballroom before they encountered Ben and a fair phalanx of menders. His hands already radiated a blue healing glow as he ran up to the king. He pressed his hands to Karigan’s head, a frown of concentration upon his face.

“Let us take her to the mending wing, sire,” he said.

“No,” King Zachary replied. “To the royal apartments.”

A few glances of surprise passed among the menders, and there was a moment of awkward silence before they were off. Anna did not follow for Captain Connly trotted down the corridor just then.

“Anna, report,” he said.

She gave him a rundown of what had happened.

“The royal apartments?” he said incredulously after she finished. He shook his head and frowned. “Keep that bit to yourself, please.”

“Yessir.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Well done, Rider. I guess I’m off to the west wing to find out what I can. Please inform Lieutenant Brennyn of what has happened.”

“Yessir.” Lieutenant Mara would be happy to hear of Karigan’s return, but would Karigan be all right?

“Where the hells am I? Put me down! Put me down!”

Zachary gasped and nearly dropped Karigan as she came to life like a wild thing in his arms even as he climbed the final stair into the royal residential corridor.

“You are home,” he told her.

“Thank the gods. Please put me down.”

“No.”

She paused her struggling and looked up at him. It seemed to register with her in that moment who he was. “Please, Your Majesty?”

“No. The menders need to check you out.”

“I don’t need to be carried.”

She struggled some more but he just snugged her more firmly against his chest.

“There is a thing I can do to make her more manageable,” Ben Simeon said from behind.

“Don’t you dare,” she said. “I will break your finger.”

“No need,” Zachary told him. “Karigan, as your king, I insist you settle. And there will be no breaking of fingers.”

A rebellious expression crossed her face but she stilled. “As you wish, Your Majesty. But I wish to make it clear for any reports that may be written that my legs are perfectly capable of supporting me.”

Her obstinance amused him, though he dared not show it for fear of becoming the target of her sharp tongue. More than amusement, though, relief and joy filled his heart that she had returned to him whole and acted true to her stubborn nature, not some misty wraith of the netherworld, despite whatever strange paths she had traveled.

“You may make as many statements as you wish,” he assured her, “but I’m not putting you down. If you prefer, I could throw you over my shoulder.”

That silenced her, but she pursed her lips as if pondering what sort of retort she could get away with.

By now he had reached rooms set aside for visiting family. They were empty, but always in a state of readiness to receive unexpected guests. He did not pause until they reached the bed chamber, where he set her down on the commodious feather bed.

She looked about in consternation. “This is not the mending wing.”

“No,” he replied, “it is not.”

“Um, why?”

“It wasn’t as far to carry an intractable Green Rider.” Before she could protest, he leaned down and whispered, “I intend to keep a close eye on you.”

When he straightened, she sat right up. “I’m fine.” Then she closed her eyes and fell back into the pillows. “Woooah, maybe a little dizzy.”

“You shouldn’t sit up so fast,” Ben chided her.

Faint color returned to her cheeks, but Zachary also spied the glint of stars in her eye when she gazed back at him.

“Thank you,” she said, “for not letting me go. But you shouldn’t have put yourself at risk like that.” Then she scowled at Fastion and Donal. “And you two shouldn’t have allowed him to.”

Even as she spoke, Zachary recalled the intense pain emanating from the remnants of the avatar’s armor when he had grabbed her. Had it been undamaged and she was wearing a whole suit, he had no doubt the star steel of the gods would have killed him. Falling, falling, he recalled, and slipping into a cold so frigid it burned. Surrounded by infinite spaces. The only thing that had kept him from panicking was her in his arms and his need to save her.

“I’m fine,” she was telling Ben Simeon.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he replied.

“You will obey the menders,” Zachary ordered.

“But—”

Then it happened again, and she began to fade and slip away.

“No!” He grabbed her arm. The cold, falling, midnight, and the ping of distant stars . . .“Stay with me. Come back.”

A blue glow infused his vision and within moments he was back in the world, and she with him. He blinked and saw the blue glow emanating from Ben’s hands.

“Well, that was different,” the mender said with a bemused expression on his face.

Karigan had gone pale again, and Zachary sat beside her and drew her back into his arms. “I will not let you go. I will not let you go.” She held him so tightly in return it was hard to breathe.

He decided that a watch must be kept on her in case she continued to slip away so they could pull her back, anchor her.

“In the meantime,” Ben told her, “you need rest. I can tell you are exhausted.”

She receded back into her pillows. “Look at me. I’m resting.”

“Karigan,” Zachary warned, but she gave him a wan smile, and he saw the depth of her exhaustion.

“It’s a good start,” Ben said. “Let’s have a look at your eye, though.”

“My eye? Why?”

“I’m just ensuring all is well.”

She pouted but did not argue when he leaned over her and reached for the eyepatch.

“I don’t want to forget,” she told Zachary, “to tell you about the gray—”

Instead of removing her eyepatch, Ben touched the bridge of her nose and she was out. “I didn’t mean to cut her off like that,” he said in chagrin.

“Yes, that was unfortunate,” Zachary replied. Had she been about to tell him something about the gray entity that had broken the stained glass down in the records room? Had she information or a warning?

“She needs the rest,” Ben said. “I can sense how much.” He shook his head. “How she was even conscious, I don’t know. I mean, overall, she seems healthy, but some of her energies are odd.”

“Like darkness and stars?” Zachary said.

Ben shuddered. “Yes, sire. The corona of a distant star . . .” He shook his head as if snapping back to the present. “Whatever is generating those energies. We can question her later, but without rest she would not remain well.” He sighed. “She’s going to kill me when she’s up and about. Or, at the very least, break my finger.”

While Zachary wished no harm to come to Ben, he hoped Karigan recovered to possess such vigor, for now she was so deeply asleep, so pale and seemingly lifeless, it unnerved him. He sat in a chair beside her bed determined to ensure she woke up again.

THE UNENDING DANCE

“I’m fine, I’m all right,” Karigan insisted.

Zachary was hazy in her vision as he leaned over her. She could not hear what he was saying. The stars were pulling on him, stretching his image, distorting his face.

Then the haze lifted and she saw him clearly. He was sitting on the bed beside her. He stroked her cheek.

“I will never let you go,” he said.

“I’m fine, really.” Something, however, did not feel quite right, as if she were still falling, the flutter in her stomach, the disorientation, the heavens slipping swiftly by.

“What is it, dearheart?” he asked.

Her pulse quickened with a familiar rhythm: one-two-three, one-two-three . . .

“I’m—”

He leaned down to kiss her, and just as his lips touched hers, he slid a dagger between her ribs.

She screamed into the heavens, the stars a blur, until a hand reached out and grabbed her by the wrist.

She walked onto the ballroom floor and was drawn into a dance. Her partner was Shawdell. Not the mosaic version she’d encountered before, but the beautiful Eletian with his golden hair and shining azure eyes. He smiled at her.

One-two-three, one-two-three, turn

She tried to pull away from him but could not.

“You don’t want to dance, Galadheon? I thought you’d find this visage more pleasing, but it does not appear so. It is just illusion, anyway.” In a blink, he was once more the warped glass mosaic. She cried out when his hands sliced hers. The offkey music stopped and she stumbled to a halt. Blood dripped from her hands.

“This is not real,” she said. “It can’t be—they pulled me out of the dark, rescued me.”

“Only a child would think so,” he replied, “but you are a woman grown now, and you know this world, my gray world, is very real.”

She could not deny how real it felt.

“I drew you back because we were interrupted and our feast awaits.”

“Feast? I don’t—”

“Come,” he said. “My other guests are ready.”

The guests crowded around her and pushed her off the dance floor toward the refreshment table. Familiar faces leered at her, the faces of those who had hurt her, who had tried to kill her, the disgraced Weapon, Torne, Captain Immerez, old Lord Mirwell, Grandmother, Nyssa . . .

“No,” she whispered, “you are all dead.”

“Are we?” Grandmother asked. She carried a basket of yarn over her wrist. “It is you who makes us live.”

Faceless servants moved the refreshment table revealing the carcass of the great black stallion, Salvistar. His hide was dull. The heavens no longer sparked in his opaque eyes. The guests pulled out knives and daggers and started to butcher his body.

Karigan backed away, horrified, tears washing down her face. Her shadow, her darker self, detached from one of the ornate columns of the ballroom and gazed impassively at the butchery, a black feather braided into her hair. Plasmic energy oozed from the wounds inflicted upon Salvistar’s corpse, and dripped down the faces of her old foes like blood as they ate of his flesh. Karigan could not look upon the carnage. Her dark self remained mute and stared at her to see what she would do.

“You should partake of the refreshments,” Shawdell said. “It would make you strong, strong unto a god yourself. Your eye ensures it. Why be an avatar when you can be a god?”

Karigan touched the patch that covered her mirror eye. “N-no.” She stumbled back.

Dark Karigan finally spoke. Our loss.

Those two words confirmed for Karigan that if she ate of Salvistar’s substance, not only would she become immeasurably strong, she would become her darker self. Strong enough to face Mornhavon the Black and defeat him, strong enough to obliterate dragons, if need be, and strong enough to rule all the Earth should she choose. All living beings would pledge fealty to her, even the Eletians. She could make them pay for all their manipulations. She could take on the very gods and win. No one and nothing could overcome her, and because she would be her darker self, the world would be remade in her aspect. A shadow world of her own creation. Yet the idea of the power beguiled her. To think she could crush Mornhavon! That would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? It would save the realm, save her friends. Save Zachary.

Only to become the thing she wished to destroy.

She backed another step. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Shawdell asked. “They are saving the heart for you.”

A vision of her biting into the heart came to her, of all that potency leaking out of the organ and her licking her fingers. She’d be a power never before seen, a power above all powers, darker than the night.

But in the night, stars glimmered.

“No.”

Dark Karigan frowned.

“I prefer the light,” Karigan said. She reached into her pocket and withdrew her moonstone.

Only, it wasn’t a moonstone at all but a lump of coal. She cried out, and the coal morphed into a crow that perched on her hand and croaked at her. It snatched her eyepatch right off her face and pecked her eye. Mirror shards shattered in her vision and fell away. The crow stabbed deep into her eye socket and began to feed.

She screamed.

A hand on her shoulder.

She whipped around. All was green around her like spring. Pasture grasses grew to her knees and smelled fresh, of dew and damp soil. There was the G’ladheon estate, the house and stables, in the distance.

“Kari girl,” said Aunt Stace.

Karigan could not see her aunt clearly for the sun was directly behind her. Karigan squinted.

“Kari,” her aunt said, “be careful with that stick. You could poke an eye out.”

Karigan glanced at her hand. She held a stick like one of the ones she used to pretend was a sword when she was young. She’d engaged in mock fights with the stablemaster’s boy or one of her friends. Her aunts had often warned her about poking out an eye.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” Aunt Stace said.

“I will.” But when Karigan looked back up, her aunt was gone.

“Come back! Come back!” The words, however, were not her own. Strong, warm hands held hers like an anchor. She did not slip away into the heavens again, but she felt as though she floated in a haven of light and warmth.

“She’s back,” someone said in a far-off voice.

“Thank the gods,” said another.

“Rest, Karigan, we will keep watch. We won’t leave you alone.”

And she drifted and slept.

Mostly she slept in blissful nothingness. No dreams, no awareness, no falling through the heavens, but she’d periods of lighter sleep, or whatever the netherworld was, in which she drifted and could hear voices now and then. Mostly she ignored them for they were but a distant babble.

“—insisting upon seeing her.”

“Her secretary. Yes, sire. He says it’s—”

Floating, flowing, uncaring.

“—and another who claims he’s kin. He says—”

It was of no matter. It was nothing and she floated on.

She became aware enough to crack open crusted eyes, and in so doing was careful to cover her mirror eye. The light was golden, but the corners all dark. She turned her head. Sitting in an armchair nearby was Estora, her gaze fixed on an embroidery frame. Light fell upon her face as if she were a goddess of ancient lore as she drew her needle through taut muslin again and again.

One-two-three, one-two-three

Karigan shook her head against the rhythm, the rhythm of the endless dance. Would she ever be free of it? She cried out in frustration.

Estora looked up from her work in surprise. “Karigan? Karigan, can you hear me? Are you awake?”

“No,” she mumbled.

As she comfortably drifted back to sleep, she heard Estora say, “Fastion, send a runner after Ben Simeon. I think—”

During another brief awakening, she saw Connly dozing in the chair. She did not disturb him. Why were people sitting beside her bed? Where was Ghost Kitty? Then she remembered this was not her bed. This one was much nicer. A mental shrug, and she returned to her peaceful drifting.

When next she awakened, gray daylight streamed in from a window somewhere. At first she could not recall where she was, but then it came back to her—the harvest ball, the wraith, the death of Salvistar, and falling through the heavens. Strange visions came to her of which she couldn’t make much sense. Perhaps they’d been dreams.

She remembered also being carried by Zachary, the worry on his face he could not hide. She must reassure him. She sat straight up.

“I’m fine! I’m fine!” she cried.

Poor Ben Simeon who had been sitting quietly beside her going over case notes was so startled he bowled over backward in his chair, all his papers poofing into the air.

“I’m fine!” she cried again.

Ben groaned where he lay, papers softly drifting down upon him. “I’m not sure I am.”

She smiled, and had he not been on the floor, he would have seen it was a mischievous smile, not malicious.

“Better than breaking your finger,” she said.

THE RIVER TONGUE

The eight women they had rescued from Varos with Laren sat with her on the beach in the shade of an awning of sail cloth and bamboo. Stevic grinned as he dropped a bunch of green coconuts on the sand before them.

“What is this?” Laren asked.

“A refreshing drink,” he replied.

One by one, he slashed off the tops with his machete and passed the coconuts around. Laren gazed at hers with a skeptical frown.

“Go on, give it a try,” he said. “Just drink from it like a cup.”

She gave him a look that clearly said that if this was some sort of joke, he’d certainly pay for it. She brought the coconut to her lips and sipped. She raised her eyebrows. “Sweet and nutty.”

“Not bad, eh?”

“Not bad at all.” The other women agreed with her.

She was looking much better of late and this day ashore really seemed to restore the glow to her cheeks. If not for the scarring patch on her neck where the Varosian brand had been removed, one would never know anything had been amiss.

“I hope my daughter is not going to impale her foot,” she said, looking out into the lagoon.

Sevano was teaching Melry how to spear fish. If they were successful, Cook would prepare for them a fine seafood supper. Beyond, Messenger sat at anchor while crew hoisted barrels of fresh water up from one of the longboats. The others were still inland on the small river that led to the waterfall from which they collected the water. It was much easier to reach by boat than by hacking through the jungle foliage on foot.

Stargazer remained out to sea, scouting for their tag-along, just as Stevic and his crew had done on Messenger as Stargazer’s crew had refilled their hold. He didn’t like taking the time, but fresh water was a must and would last the remainder of their journey. Their tag-along had not closed in, which did not make him feel any easier. Whoever it was, they were stealthy. His crew and passengers, however, were enjoying the break.

“Got it!” Melry cried.

She lifted her spear out of the water with a sizeable anha fish on it. Cook, Stevic thought, was going to be pleased. He, Laren, and the ladies clapped and cheered at Melry’s success.

Stevic headed back into the jungle seeking dead wood for a bonfire and any other treasures he could find. He made several trips to the beach with bundles of wood, and a heaping basket of butterfruit. Cook had set up an outdoor kitchen to fix supper for everyone. The crew would have a chance to relax and eat good, fresh food.

The ladies were splashing in the water, and Laren waded in up to her knees to watch. Stevic dropped onto the blanket beneath the awning to rest in the shade, and ate a butterfruit. Its mild sweet juice dripped down his chin. Too bad a load of them in their hold would rot before they reached Sacoridia’s shores, or he could make a tidy profit selling them.

He watched Laren watching the ladies, her arms crossed, the sun shining down on her loosely bound hair. She seemed relaxed, yet withdrawn. Perhaps it was because as an officer and usually under the scrutiny of those she served and those whom she commanded, she’d always had to maintain a certain level of decorum and a distance, and so it was at this point a habit. No doubt she felt as responsible for her ladies as she did her Green Riders. She shouted encouragement and laughed with them, but did not join in with the frivolity. But then the women turned on her, splashing her in a deluge, and everyone shouted and laughed, including Laren. They grabbed her hands and dragged her into the water. She emerged entirely drenched but still laughing. He chuckled as she walked up the beach wringing out her shirt tail with a grin.

“You will dry quickly,” he told her.

“It’s like bath water,” she said, “if a bit on the salty side. The girls are having a very good time of it. One could get used to winters like this.”

“I used to lead winter trading missions to the Cloud Islands,” he replied. “Always nice for escaping the cold and snow, but I decided it was not fair to lead them all, so lately I’ve sent Sevano in my stead with our ships.”

She sat beside him, and they watched the activity on the beach and in the water in silence, the water gently lapping against the shore. Melry speared another fish.

“She’s getting good at that,” Laren murmured.

They’d had few moments alone since that night when the new constellation had appeared. There had been much discussion about the meaning of the constellation among the crew, but fortunately he, with Sevano’s and Laren’s help, was able to suppress superstitious talk and calm them even though he’d no idea how or why it had formed. So far nothing catastrophic or unusual had befallen them, which was a good sign, and the constellation simply appeared in the night sky like every other as though it had always been there. Neither he nor Laren had had further dreams of Karigan.

She smiled as she still watched the women she helped bring to freedom play in the water. Every so often she’d mention some aspect of her time in Varos, how she slowly befriended the women who were the slaves, wives, and concubines of King Farrad Vir, and taught them the common tongue. She taught a special few how to fight.

He could not imagine being denied the freedom to move about at will, to not be considered human, and being forced to serve. To be punished for the smallest of infractions.

“Do you think Sojourner has reached Tallitre by now?” she asked.

He sifted fine white sand between his fingers. “Nearly so. Why do you ask?”

“I was just thinking about the women and how happy they’ll be to get home.”

“Ah.” The former slave women who had sailed with Master Hunt. It brought up an issue he had been curious about. “Laren, what was that whole thing with Master Hunt and regime change?”

She shouted some encouragement to Melry, who was aiming her spear at another fish. “I probably shouldn’t tell you, but I don’t think Zachary would object after entrusting you with three of his finest warships.”

“To a former pirate, no less,” he said with a chuckle.

“Hmm, well, he is a good judge of character, as am I, and you have not disappointed either of us yet.”

Some people might consider hers an underwhelming assessment, but it touched him. It was high praise and meant she trusted him.

“Besides,” she added, “he has a soft spot for G’ladheons.”

“He does? Well, I suppose after all Karigan has done for the realm, or at least the bits I’m aware of, it does much to restore the G’ladheon name.”

She gave him an indecipherable look. “Yes,” she said dryly. “I’m sure that’s it.”

Before he could ask her to explain, she continued with her story. She told him that when Zachary’s embassy could not negotiate her release, they informed her another effort was underway to win her freedom. In the meantime, they asked, might she be able to influence instability in the king’s court to make things more favorable for Kir-kranya?

“Kir-kranya had made overtures of friendship to Sacoridia, but with Varos commanding the coasts and generally having power over Kir-kranya, the friendship could not be consummated. I am not fully aware of Zachary’s interests in Kir-kranya, but he sees Varos as a barrier, and he objects to the way people are treated there. And, he might be a little angry that Varos stole one of his trusted advisers as well as other Sacoridians, though I met none while I was there.”

“So the embassy left you there to . . . be the king’s agent?”

“I am the king’s servant.” She shoved her feet into the sand and started to build a mound over them. “The embassy had little choice but to leave me, and my presence there was seen as an opportunity since I had to await rescue, anyway. I was more than willing, believe me. I had every desire to seek vengeance against my masters as Zachary’s agent or no.”

“You are telling me the Varosians had no idea about this? How did you get away with the scheme? Surely they knew what the embassy was telling you.”

“Oh, the Varosians had listeners, of course, who knew the common tongue. They did not know, however, the dialect of the river runners of the Grandgent. It’s incomprehensible to most Sacoridians, as well, unless you’ve been brought up on the river like I was. Zachary ensured the members of his embassy knew it. Tol Asmerand questioned me afterward about what was said, but with the centipede no longer in my ear, I was able to freely lie. He was angry he didn’t have a reason to punish me, and so punished me for that. He also found plenty of petty offenses later.” She touched the round scar on her neck. “He got what he deserved. And all the sickness in the world was worth carving that thing off my neck. Even death would have been preferable.”

“Please don’t say that,” Stevic said. “I could not bear the thought.”

She gave him a sidelong look and her expression softened. “For what it’s worth, I prefer to live. I wish to see Melry get on with her life, even if it means she’s still determined to become a Weapon, and I’d like to see how other things progress.”

She gave him such a smile that he understood what “things” she wished to see progress.

“Me, too,” he said. “And as things . . . progress . . . perhaps you would teach me some of the river dialect?”

“I am sure that can be arranged.”

“Excellent.” They fell into silence, content to sit in one another’s company, but darker thoughts did occur to him. “Do you suppose the Varosians will come after you?”

“Depending on what happens with the rebellion in the city and the Kir-kranyans, it’s entirely possible. King Farrad Vir is like a dragon sitting on his precious treasure. He won’t take kindly to losing one of his favorite possessions, which means, of course, he’ll be none too happy with you.”

“If he or any of his people come anywhere near you,” Stevic said with vehemence, “I will ensure they regret it.”

“Very nobly said,” she replied, and chuckled. “I’ve never had so doughty a knight to lend me his shield.”

“You may laugh,” he said, “but I mean every word.”

She sobered. “I know you do. I’m just not used to anyone looking out for me in that fashion. I’ve always managed, more or less, on my own.”

“I think you underestimate how many love you and would defend you to the end. For instance, your Riders, Drent—”

“Drent?”

He nodded. “And your king, and Melry.”

“And you?” she said quietly.

“They’d all have to get in line behind me.” He took her hand and kissed it and ended up with a sandy mouth. Laren fairly rolled about in laughter as he attempted to spit it out. His courtly gesture had not turned out to be as romantic as he’d intended.

“Hey, you two!” Elgin Foxsmith ambled up the beach with enormous crabs in each hand snapping at the air. “Look what I found.”

“What the hells?” Laren said.

“Coconut crabs,” Stevic said. “Very tasty.”

• • •

The crew and passengers of Messenger feasted well that night and enjoyed lively entertainment on the beach. Afterward, Stevic, Laren, and a few others returned to the ship. The rest would spend the night on the beach to resume fetching water first thing in the morning.

Aboard ship, Stevic reviewed and approved the night’s watch, and then found Elgin talking with Laren.

“That was better than our Vendane feast,” Elgin was saying with a pat to his belly. “Good night to you both.” Then he descended below deck.

Stevic was about to follow him down when Laren touched his sleeve. “Captain, would you join me for a nightcap? We can begin your lessons in the river tongue.”

A thrill tickled through him. “I would be delighted, Colonel.”

• • •

Stevic stretched languidly on the bunk. Beads of perspiration lingered on his skin after the passions they’d exercised in the sultry air of the tropical night. Any reticence Laren had been feeling toward him had apparently vanished, and certainly she had fully recovered from her illness if her energy during their lovemaking was any indication. It had been the most satisfying and pleasurable night he’d experienced in some while. It was one version of the river tongue in which he didn’t mind becoming fluent.

“Stevic,” she said.

“Laren.” He reached across the bed for her, ready for more, but there was an expanse of space between them. “Laren?”

“Wake up, Stevic.”

He opened one eye. She was sitting in the corner of the bunk against the hull with the blankets bunched up around her.

“Wake up,” she told him.

The tone of her voice brought him alert at once. With both eyes wide open, he sat up to discover they were not alone in the cabin. In the predawn shadow of early morning, he discerned a female figure leaning against the table watching them. She twisted the key on the base of the lamp and its faint glow flared to bright.

Stevic squinted and shielded his eyes with his hand.

“Well, well, well,” the woman said. “Stevic G’ladheon, as I live and breathe. It’s been an age or two, hasn’t it?”

CAPTAIN HUMBLE

Stevic almost tumbled out of the bed. “Mead? Is it really you?”

She gave him that slow, cocky grin he had once known so well.

“Perhaps an introduction is in order,” Laren said, “since apparently the two of you are already acquainted.”

“Aye, Stevic, darling,” Mead said. “How about an introduction to your companion?”

He almost rose from bed, but remembered he was unclothed and thought better of it. “Of course. Laren, this is Mead Humble. We served together on the Gold Hunter.” Several memories came to mind, many of them good, some distinctly pleasurable, and others less so. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”

“We had some good times, didn’t we?”

It then occurred to him to wonder what the hells she was doing on Messenger, and then it hit him like a bucket of freezing water. “Still raiding ships, eh?”

“That I am,” she replied. “It’s Captain Humble now, of the flagship, Chance.”

“Flagship? I’m impressed.”

“And so you should be. I’ve come up in the world. Now, who’s your lady?”

They were in trouble. The pirates had caught up with them and boarded in the dark of night. He hadn’t heard a thing. A favorable past history with Mead might help the situation, but ultimately she was here on business and would not be deterred by past associations. Therefore he decided to be careful in his introduction of Laren. Not to lie, but not to give too much away, like her status in King Zachary’s court.

“Mead, er, Captain Humble, it’s my honor to present Laren Mapstone.”

The two women assessed one another with steady gazes, each of them formidable in her own right, though Laren was disadvantaged by being wrapped in a blanket since she, too, was unclothed. It didn’t seem to faze her, though.

Night and fire, he thought. Mead with her mane of blue-black hair, and broad and strong body. Laren with her red hair, diminutive in size by comparison, but no less strong. Dissimilar in most ways, yet alike in some.

“I trust you are here on business,” Stevic said.

“You’re just realizing it?” Mead replied.

“He’s a bit slow when waking up,” Laren told her.

“Some things have not changed,” Mead said.

The cabin fell into a crackling silence.

“My crew?” he asked.

“Most have been rousted and assembled on deck. Your crew members on the beach have been rounded up, as well. It’s good to see Sevano, again. A lot more gray in his hair now.”

“He always thought highly of you.”

She smiled. “Almost like a family reunion, isn’t it?” She took the lamp from where it hung and held it in front of him and he squinted against the glare. “Time has treated you well, Stevic, aye, indeed. You’ve a little gray, too, in the temples. Adds character.” She set the lamp aside. “Now get dressed. Out of respect for our past companionship, I will trust on your honor that you will come up on deck without trouble. If you must be prodded, it won’t be gentle.”

“I understand,” he replied. And he certainly did, having been on the other side of piracy in his young adulthood.

“I know you do. Don’t dawdle. Everyone is waiting on you.”

After she left, Stevic jumped out of bed and shut the cabin door.

“What now?” Laren asked.

“We do as she says. We dress and go up. No weapons.”

“What’s going to happen?”

He found his shirt on the floor and threw it over his head. Laren searched through the tousled blankets for her own clothes.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “There are a few different possibilities. She could press us into crewing her fleet—”

“Fleet?”

“You heard her, she’s captain of the flagship. Probably she’s got two or three other vessels under her command. So, she might press us and take our ship, or she might strand us on the island, or she might simply kill us, or . . .”

“Or?”

He sobered. He hadn’t wanted to tell her, but it was best she knew the truth and was prepared. “Or she could sell us to a state that sanctions slavery.”

“Like Varos.”

“Yes, like Varos.”

Fully clothed, Laren placed her hands on her hips. “I will kill her before that happens. If she does any harm to Melry or my ladies, I will kill her with my bare hands if need be. They’ve had enough in their lives. I will not allow any more to be done to them.”

He crossed over and crushed her in his arms. “I know, I know. Let us hope Mead is reasonable and it doesn’t come to that.” His youthful memories of a carefree Mead and their time together conflicted with what he knew of pirate business. He’d seen her in action when they were compatriots aboard the Gold Hunter. He knew how dangerous she was.

Laren pulled away from him. “You were in love with her, weren’t you.”

A statement, not a question. He remembered her ability to read people even without the augmentation of her magic brooch.

“Yes. When I thought I’d never see Kariny again. At least I thought it was love.” He shook his head. He’d been a lost, broken boy forced to serve, shipped off to foreign ports and learning to fight for survival. Without Sevano or Mead, he would not have made it. “Come, we can’t keep her waiting.” He then whispered, “I want to keep your background quiet. Might be useful.”

She nodded, and together they left the cabin.

Up on deck in the predawn light, he found his own crew, those who weren’t on the beach, surrounded by members of Mead’s with hands on the hilts of their swords, but looking fairly casual. He knew that one word from Mead and they’d set upon his people without a second thought. His crew knew it, too, for they stood peaceably. Melry had a very rebellious look in her eye and he prayed she would not provoke the pirates. Sevano looked none too pleased by the situation. Aelff stood with his head hung low.

“Sorry, Cap,” the young sailor said. “All my fault. I fell asleep on watch.”

Stevic placed his hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He swept his gaze across the water where the silhouette of a familiar ship lay anchored. “Stargazer?”

“She’ll make a fine addition to my fleet, as will this ship,” Mead said. “These are well-made vessels you are commanding, but you always went for the best. That said, they’re not your typical merchant type. I’ve never seen ships with quite these sleek lines, and they are very new. It would appear His Majesty, King Zachary, has some new designs for his naval ships.”

“These are not the king’s ships,” Stevic said.

“The armaments in the hold say differently.”

While most evidence that Messenger, Stargazer, and Sojourner originated from the royal shipyard had been stripped out to deceive the Varosians, there hadn’t been much they could do with the armaments except conceal them with sailcloth. He hadn’t been about to go on a long voyage without them.

“There is a dearth of trade goods on either ship,” Mead added. “Quite disappointing.”

“Our trading has been very successful,” he replied.

“I have heard all about how you became a wealthy merchant.” She approached him under the watchful eyes of her crew. There had to be at least fifty of them. She dropped a purse onto the deck with a thunk and a jingle. “This is a surprisingly poor return for trading away all of your goods. It’s almost as if you traded it all for something, or someone.” Her gaze fell on Laren.

“Cap’n Humble,” cried a man climbing onto the deck from below, “we found some more textiles and wine in the hold, and this stowed in one of the cabins.”

Gold glimmered in the burgeoning rays of dawn as he unrolled a bundle that he’d been carrying in his arms. Stevic groaned. It was the angweld cloth, the rarest of textiles known in all the lands. It was a happy accident Sevano had rescued it when they escaped the palace of King Farrad Vir, and Stevic had hoped to use it to restore the damage he’d inflicted on his clan’s merchanting business by losing most of its inventory in Varos without recompense.

“Well, well, well,” Mead murmured. She stroked the gold cloth. “This will compensate nicely for your lackluster hold. The new constellation has proved lucky for us.” She looked at her crewman. “Did you find anything of value in the captain’s cabin?”

The man dropped a bundle of cloth on deck. Gold embroidery gleamed on Laren’s uniform longcoat.

Damnation. There was no way of keeping her status a secret now. They’d be watching Laren extra close, maybe even ransom her. They’d know she had some fighting skills, so there’d be no surprising them.

“You look very distressed, Stevic darling,” Mead said. “To be honest, none of this is much of a surprise to me. We were quite aware of your special cargo.” She nodded at Laren. “King Farrad Vir is understandably upset at having his truth-teller stolen from him,” Mead continued, “as well as some of his other household slaves. But your woman, Stevic, she is the one he is most anxious to have returned, and I am going to be the one who does the returning.”

“That would be a mistake,” he said.

“Not according to King Farrad Vir. I understand he was in quite a lather about losing her, among other things.”

“You will not be taking her to Varos,” he said, anger creeping into his voice.

“Afraid of losing your lover? Is that it? But you won’t be. At least, not at first. You are going to Varos, too. The king has put quite a healthy bounty on your head. After this, and with the angweld cloth, well, I might very well retire.”

Of course, he thought. Of course the king had put a bounty on his head.

“I will not go back to Varos,” Laren said.

“I know,” he said. “I won’t let you be enslaved again.”

“How very sweet,” Mead said, “but you’ll be hard pressed to prevent it.”

The look in Laren’s eyes said otherwise, but Stevic did not know of a way to counter Mead without it resulting in all their deaths.

A CHALLENGE

“Stevic,” Mead said, “your crew has had the talk. If they interfere, they’ll be killed. Those who’d like to may join my crew. The rest, well, they get to stay on the island. They’re lucky. It’s bountiful. You—” and she pointed at him, and then Laren, “and you, and those women, are going to Varos.”

“No!” Melry cried.

Two of the pirates grabbed her and started to pummel her. Laren lunged toward her but was caught by another pair of pirates. “Leave her alone!”

“Melry!” Stevic shouted. They would not think twice about beating and killing her if they thought her too much trouble, and he could tell by the tensing of both crews a brawl was brewing. It would be a bloodbath since Mead’s folk held all the weapons.

Laren had quieted and tugged her arms free of the pirates who held her. “Silence!” Her order rang out with such authority that everyone paused, including Melry. “Such behavior is not to be tolerated in front of our guests.”

Guests? he wondered.

“Guests?” Melry echoed.

Everyone stared at Laren in incredulity, including Mead.

“I trust your flagship is close by?” Laren asked Mead.

Mead scrunched up her eyebrows. “Anchored in a quiet little bay on the north side of the island. This lagoon’s too shallow for her draft.”

“I see. Well, my ladies and I should like to prepare a special supper to honor our guests, and also as a gesture of leave-taking. We’ve a very good cook, a hull with barrels of Rhovanny’s finest, and the island is, as you say, bountiful.”

What, Stevic wondered, was she up to? Everyone appeared as perplexed as he felt, but he decided he’d better roll with it. “Yes, of course. For old time’s sake, eh, Mead?”

“That’s Captain Humble to you,” she said.

“Of course. I apologize, Captain Humble.” He bowed as he spoke.

Amina made a query in what he thought was Varosian. Laren did not answer, but she made some sort of subtle hand signal in reply, or maybe she was just waving an insect away.

“What are you waiting for?” she demanded of the crew. “Get to work!”

“What the hells?” Mead demanded, “I’m in—”

“Captain, how many crew members have you?” Laren asked.

“Two hundred on Chance,” she replied, “twenty-five on Stargazer, and this lot here is forty souls. Why—?”

Laren walked away and started organizing work parties of both crews with her ladies following in her wake to assist. The crews scrambled to obey her, for this was not simply Laren Mapstone snapping out orders, but Colonel Mapstone.

As Stevic understood it, Green Riders didn’t march or drill, or at least not often, for they relied more on self-discipline than regimented unit cohesion. Their relationship with their officers was more relaxed than the regular military, though when required, they listened up and followed orders, and always deferred to their officers. Laren had long years of command, much battle experience, including against the Darrow Raiders, and it was all in her voice and posture as she strode about the deck, handing out assignments. She wasn’t King Zachary’s close adviser just because they were friends, but because she was experienced and capable. Authority radiated from her. Messenger’s crew, and even Mead’s loosely disciplined pirates, practically tripped over themselves to obey.

Mead sidled up to him. “What is it with your woman? Whatever she’s up to, it will change nothing.”

He grinned. “Magnificent, isn’t she?”

Mead scowled.

“And,” he added, “she is not my woman. She is her own person. No one owns her.”

“Wrong. King Farrad Vir owns her.”

“He will never own her,” he replied.

“What are you saying, Stevic?”

“I’m saying that if you knew her history, you might understand.”

“That’s no answer.”

“We go back a ways, you and I,” he said. “In the full of our youth we made it together through difficult circumstances and some good times, too. Remember that tavern fight in Port Palm?”

“How could I forget? You dropped an eel in Harkins’ ale.”

They both laughed.

“Poor old Harkins,” Mead said. “His captain keel-hauled him a few years ago for stealing her portion of a prize taken off a Rhovan merchant.”

“You?” Stevic asked, sobering.

She nodded. “I was that captain. It was unpleasant to have to punish him so, but I have to maintain authority over these thieves and murderers.”

“Of course.”

“You know, Stevic, if you joined up with me, I’d forget about your bounty on Varos. I’d even let you keep command of this ship. We’d have more good times.”

“I thought you wanted to retire.”

She shrugged. “If you came on, I’d stay on. I bet Sevano would join us.”

He shook his head. “I’m past that life, too old and set in my ways. Sevano even more so. Besides, I’ve a clan to look after and a daughter. And Laren.”

“And you’ll do better at taking care of those things from Varos? Or after whatever it is King Farrad Vir wants to do to you? You may think me cruel for keel-hauling Harkins, but anything King Farrad Vir had in mind to do to you would be far worse.”

“My understanding is that King Farrad Vir has a lot on his hands right now. Seems like I’d be the least of his worries.”

“Word is, he’s furious. But what do you know of it?”

“I know the woman who endangered his kingdom by fomenting rebellion among the Kir-kranyans.”

She gazed across the deck where Laren stood consulting with Elgin. Crew members were bringing up casks of wine and throwing them overboard to be floated ashore. Already cookfires were being lit on the beach.

“You are telling me your woman started that?” There was incredulity in her voice.

“Again, she is not my woman. And yes.” He wasn’t about to reveal that her ability as a truth-teller had abandoned her. That information might be used to their advantage against Mead. The only others who knew were Elgin and Melry.

Mead seemed to reassess as she watched Laren. Then she shook her head. “Doesn’t change anything. We’re going to Varos, and I am only permitting this”—she swept her hand wide to indicate all the activity—“because my crews could use a break and some frivolity. It took some work to catch up with you.”

“And if King Farrad Vir is no more by the time we reach Varos?”

“Then we’ll see. Think on my offer, darling. If you accept, you’ll still be able to see your daughter.” She strode off shouting orders at her people.

He watched the activity speculatively. He wasn’t sure what Laren was up to with organizing a “supper of leave-taking.” Maybe it was just to buy time, in which case he needed to come up with a plan to avoid a journey back to Varos, and more importantly, how to prevent slaughter to accomplish it.

• • •

Torches and a bonfire provided festive light on the beach when evening arrived. Sailors and passengers feasted and drank. Mead’s crew gulped down the fine Rhovan wine as if it were ordinary swill. Laren watered hers down a great deal, and Stevic advised his own crew to do the same. Should fights and bloodshed break out, having at least one side maintain its wits might prevent an all-out bloodbath. So far the crews seemed to be getting on, playing cards, tossing dice, playing music on pipe and fiddle, and mostly eating and drinking.

Cook sacrificed their hog for the event. Whether Messenger went back to Varos or on to Sacoridia, they could do without it. Melry and others had caught a good deal of fish and they’d seabirds, conchs, and more crabs to add variety. Yet again, Cook had outdone himself, marshalling assistants to help with all the butchery, peeling, and cooking.

Stevic sat at the table of honor—a couple planks placed atop barrels. Laren had placed Mead at the table’s head, and Stevic to one side, and herself to the other. She wore her full uniform, its glorious gold-embroidered feather embellishments and colonel’s insignia agleam in the torchlight. She looked formidable. Mead, by contrast, in her usual pirate attire looked haggard and drowned in shadow. Stevic had dressed himself in his finest garb, but without the longcoat because of the warmth—he did not know how Laren could stand hers. Seated at the table were also Mead’s officers, and his own officers, including Sevano.

“So, you’re a messenger,” Mead said to Laren. She didn’t water her wine down, but she was canny enough not to take more than infrequent sips.

“She is colonel of the king’s own messengers,” Stevic said.

“So, I guess that means you report to a general.”

“No,” Laren replied. “I report directly to the king and queen.”

“Huh.”

He had not had much of a chance to confer with Laren as to what she was planning. In fact, she’d been downright cagey. He had not come up with a plan of his own that wouldn’t end in blood, so he was pleased she had something in mind. He just wished she’d give him some indication of what it was so he could be prepared to help.

“Laren is far more than a colonel,” Stevic said. “She is an important adviser to the king.”

“That so?” Mead said.

“Laren and King Zachary have long been friends.”

“That must be very special for you,” Mead told her.

Laren gave her a cold smile.

“How long have the two of you been—?” Mead made a crude gesture with her hands.

Stevic bit back a heated reply. “We’ve been serious for about a year, but we met going on six years.” He stabbed a butterfruit with his knife. “When my daughter first joined the Green Riders.”

Mead sipped her wine. “Your daughter, is she Kariny’s get?”

He chopped the butterfruit in half with more force than necessary.

“You always talked about the girl, Kariny,” Mead continued. “How you’d go back to her when you made your fortune with the Gold Hunter. Then you gave up. You started making me a part of your dreams.”

He pared the butterfruit and popped a piece into his mouth. It was bitter, not ripe enough, and he spat it out.

“But then you took to the land,” Mead said, “and you left me behind.”

“As I recall,” he said, “after the demise of the Gold Hunter you sought out another ship.”

“You could have joined with me.” Her face grew hard. “Apparently you wanted this Kariny more than me.”

Laren appeared to observe their conversation with a discomfiting amount of interest. It was not really something he wished to discuss. He’d never really talked about his pirate years in detail with her. He had believed those days done long ago.

“I left that life,” he said, “and returned to the mainland with all I ever learned from Captain Ifior and my time on the Gold Hunter. I worked to build a name for myself. A new life. I was successful and was able to bring Kariny from Black Island to Corsa to be with me.”

Mead sawed into a hunk of pork. “I’ve heard of the G’ladheon merchanting clan.” She laughed. “I’ve taken ships with some of your goods on them. But, oh, how you mooned over that girl. Kariny this, Kariny that even after you settled for me.”

He bristled, well-aware she was goading him. “Mead, you know perfectly well it was nothing like that.”

“Wasn’t it though? And what ever became of her that you’ve taken up with a messenger? Or, is she back in Corsa unaware?”

“She passed away over twenty years ago. Fever took her.”

“Huh. Sorry about that, Stevic.” She raised her goblet. “To Kariny, then.” And she drank.

Stevic did not raise his cup as he knew she was far from sorry. He gazed across the table. Laren ate very little, but then she was always a light eater. Sevano next to her chewed mechanically and seemed uninterested in the chatter of the officers. Amina remained silent, as well.

The revelers were not quiet. Many shouted and laughed, the music echoing along the lagoon. A sailor took a piss nearby in the bushes.

“You should enjoy the night while you can,” Mead said, “for tomorrow we set sail for Varos.”

“About that,” Laren said, “I am not going.”

Mead nearly spilled wine she laughed so hard. “Oh, you are going.”

“Then you will have to take my corpse.”

“Laren—” Stevic began.

Mead sobered. “If you are talking about taking your own life, I won’t have it. I’ll put you in shackles first. Or have you poisoned yourself?”

“I refuse to be enslaved again. And it is not happening. And poison? Oh, no. I want to make myself clear. I intend to return to Sacoridia, but if I am prevented, I will go dead to Varos.”

“Like I said,” Mead replied, “I’ll put you in shackles.”

“You misunderstand, Captain Humble,” Laren said. “I propose an alternative.”

“An alternative? I have got to hear this.”

“A duel,” Laren replied calmly. “To the death.”

Stevic jumped to his feet ready to leap across the table and shake her. “Laren! Have you lost your mind?”

“Not in the slightest. You know my feelings on this, Stevic.”

Mead shifted on her seat and reappraised Laren. “Well, well, the messenger has iron balls. I’ll give her that.”

Oh, Laren, he thought. Mead was an accomplished fighter and . . . murderer. Laren was battle proven, but had spent more time at a desk in recent years than honing her fighting skills. And she had all too recently been deathly ill.

“A duel, eh?” Mead murmured. “Challenge accepted.”

LAREN’S GAMBIT

“Momma?” Melry cried. “Really? A duel?”

“That is what Captain Humble and I are discussing.”

“No!” Melry looked imploringly at Stevic. “Tell her she can’t.”

“I—” he began.

“I can and I will,” Laren said.

Mother and daughter started arguing.

“Her daughter?” Mead asked Stevic with a nod toward Melry. “The troublemaker?”

“Yes, and we do not need to do this.”

“I will not go back to Varos alive,” Laren said, “and not just for my sake, or Melry’s.”

“What is she babbling about?” Mead asked him.

“I’m not sure.”

Excitement spread through the crews on the beach. They stopped what they were doing to find out what was happening.

“Mornhavon the Black is returning,” Laren said, “and I need to return home for my Riders and my king.”

Mead laughed and many others joined in.

“It’s not exactly funny,” Stevic said. “The threat is real.”

“I am sure her Riders and her king will get on without her,” Mead said. “It changes nothing.”

He took his seat and leaned toward her. “You think because you are out on the seas you won’t be affected? Certainly not at first, but if Mornhavon succeeds and wins a war with Sacoridia and then pushes through Rhovanny and across the entire continent, what ships will be left to filch? Where will you anchor as the creatures of dark magic he harbors are released into the world?”

“You know so much about Mornhavon and Blackveil?” Mead was scornful, but now she sounded less certain. “Most anything about Blackveil is nursery tales.”

“Untrue.”

“How do you know? No one goes into Blackveil. That old wall holds the forest back.” She paused, looked aside. “Now that’s something I haven’t thought about in years.”

“You have been away at sea for far too long,” he told her, “and I know about Blackveil, not just from Laren and King Zachary, but from my daughter. She entered Blackveil and barely survived. An evil Eletian breached the wall.”

“An Eletian?” This time Mead could not contain herself. “You tell a good tale, Stevic darling.”

He slapped the plank table with the flat of his hand. Drinking vessels, utensils, and food jumped. “I am telling you it is so. Eletians have emerged from their realm and have aligned with Sacoridia as they did during the Long War. And to say otherwise, that there is nothing to any of it, is a grave insult to my daughter who has risked her life time and again to protect Sacoridia and all the free lands beyond, and thus a grave insult to me.”

“I do so enjoy it when he gets passionate,” Mead told Laren.

“It appears to be a G’ladheon trait,” Laren replied with the hint of a smile.

Stevic sputtered indignantly.

“Hey, Cap’n Humble,” one of the pirates called, “maybe it’s him you should duel.”

“Oh, we have dueled in the past,” Mead said, “in bed. He is a more than an adequate opponent.”

This was followed by hearty guffaws and laughs from their watchers. The back of Stevic’s neck burned, even more so when Laren smiled.

“Laren,” he said, “this is not like you.”

Her smile vanished and she gazed at him dead in the eye. “We have known each other for a few years, and have gotten close only recently. There is much you don’t yet know about me. It is not for you to judge.”

“Thing is,” he told Laren, “I would like to get to know what I don’t know about you. But if you do this . . .” He gestured helplessly.

Her expression softened for but a moment, then she turned to Mead. “It is my understanding that dueling is not an uncommon practice in some pirate quarters as a way of resolving disagreements.”

“It is,” Mead agreed.

It was against the law in Sacoridia, Stevic thought. What would King Zachary think when he found out his friend and close adviser had engaged in dueling?

“Duel at dawn?” Laren said.

“Why wait?” Mead countered.

Laren nodded. “Why, indeed. If I win, I take Messenger and Stargazer, all their crews and passengers, to Sacoridia. You win, you can take my corpse to Varos and drop it at King Farrad Vir’s feet.”

“Mother,” a horrified Melry cried out. “You can’t do this. You can’t leave me like this.”

“Your daughter does not seem to hold much confidence in your abilities,” Mead said, “but I do disagree on one count of your proposal. You are no good to me dead. King Farrad Vir wants his truth-teller alive. It will be a first wounding, and if that doesn’t stop you, I will incapacitate you with something worse. King Farrad Vir’s truth-teller only needs her tongue. If she’s missing a foot or hand? It is not my problem. You can kill yourself if you want after I collect my reward. As for what I get if I win? You, Stevic, and the women back to Varos, and the ships and anything of value.”

“On your honor?” Laren asked.

“Aye.”

“Then agreed,” Laren replied.

“You are both mad,” Stevic said.

They tossed a silver coin to see who got to choose the weapon. Mead won.

“My trusty cutlass will do,” she said.

“I do not happen to own one,” Laren replied.

“You may use mine, Colonel,” Sevano said.

Stevic pulled Laren aside. “Have you ever used a cutlass?”

“Of course,” she replied, but her eyes said, “no.”

An area on the beach was cleared and swept with palm fronds for the duel. Laren stood off to the side testing the balance of Sevano’s cutlass. Melry talked half-hysterically at her, while Sevano gave her advice on using the weapon. Amina stood solemnly by to offer support. He believed Laren fully intended to kill or be killed, no matter Mead’s words about first wounding. If Mead would not kill her, she would still find a way to take her own life. He paced frantically thinking about how to stop them. Mead would not play fair.

He grabbed Sevano’s arm. “Make sure the colonel has a longknife. Mead will use hers in addition to her cutlass as a matter of course.”

“This I know,” Sevano replied. “She’s got mine.”

Before he had a chance to talk to Laren again, the women stood face-to-face in a circle etched into the sand. They touched blades to begin. He could not believe they were actually going through with it.

No, no, no. He could not allow this to happen. He made to step into the circle to stop them, but a pair of burly pirates grabbed him. When he struggled, a solid fist to his gut made him double over. He’d have fallen to his knees had the two brutes not held onto him. He missed the first exchange of blows.

He shook his head to clear it. Laren and Mead were circling one another. Clamorous shouts arose all around him, egging on the combatants and making bets. Mead wore a vicious smile while Laren’s expression was one of concentration.

Clang-clang-clang!

The blades moved blindingly fast. They were testing one another.

“It is surprising,” Laren said.

“What is?” asked Mead.

“That you haven’t asked King Zachary.”

She thrusted, and Mead parried.

“Asked him what?” said Mead.

“If he would pay more than King Farrad Vir for the return of his trusted adviser and friend.”

“Good try,” Mead said. “Zachary would as much hang me.”

Wait, Stevic thought. Was this Laren’s plan unfolding?

The women exchanged another series of blows. it was clear that Laren had more formal sword training to Mead’s practical experience with the cutlass. Laren acquitted herself admirably and Stevic indeed thought he had underestimated her, but he was not sure how long she could sustain that level of swordplay against Mead’s battering. Then Mead’s cutlass sliced a little too close to Laren’s neck for comfort. Mead might want to stop at first wounding, but accidents happened.

“He would not hang you if we stood up for you,” Laren said.

“You have so much power, messenger?” Mead demanded. “Forgive me if I have my doubts.”

“Oh, but I do.” Laren jabbed at her, but she jumped out of the way. “You forget that I am a truth-teller and I am telling the truth.”

This was it, he thought. Laren, you are brilliant. He should have known better than to doubt her. The duel was not the end all of her plan. He had allowed his fear for her safety to overcome his better sense.

“A truth-teller can lie like anyone else,” Mead said.

“True,” Laren said, “unless the truth-teller has an ekedian centipede in her ear. If I were lying, I’d be entirely incapacitated right now.”

Yes, yes! Stevic practically jumped up and down. This! This was Laren’s gambit.

Mead abruptly stopped fighting and stabbed her cutlass into the sand and stepped back. She showed her empty palms to indicate a cessation in the contest. Laren did likewise. The audience groaned in disappointment.

“I’ve heard that King Farrad Vir uses ekedian centipedes on his slaves, though I haven’t seen it,” Mead said.

Amina stepped forward. “Not all slaves, only the gifted. I do not have one, nor do these women.” She indicated the former slaves. “Laren does.”

“Huh.” Mead rubbed her chin, considering. “And King Zachary would hear me out on your word?”

Stevic tore free of the pirates holding him. “He most certainly would. Why else would he give me, of all people, a former pirate, command of his newest warships to go all the way to Varos to rescue this particular woman?”

Laren gave him a look as if it was about time he spoke up.

“Then why the duel?” Mead demanded.

“I wanted to ensure you knew I was committed,” Laren replied. “I was truthful, and deadly serious, when I said I would not return to Varos. Not alive, at any rate. And I was quite serious about defeating you. I still am.”

“Let us discuss this possible opportunity,” Mead said, “and if I am satisfied with what you say, we go on to Sacoridia. If not, to Varos.”

“If not,” Laren said, “we finish the duel with the same stakes.”

“Agreed.”

The onlookers wandered off in disappointment that there’d be no blood—at least for the moment—and returned to their games and merriment. Laren and Mead left their swords standing in the sand and Stevic followed them back to the table.

Mead poured more wine for each of them. “King Farrad Vir has offered a fortune to whoever retrieves his truth-teller. Can King Zachary match thirty thousand kersats?”

Stevic’s hair almost stood on end as he mentally calculated that into Sacoridian currency. Truly, a fortune. More than a king’s ransom.

But without a moment’s hesitation, Laren said, “Yes. He could top it, within reason.” She said it so calmly and confidently she was very believable. Stevic had no idea if the king really possessed that kind of treasure after paying for war with Second Empire and preparing for another that loomed with Mornhavon the Black.

“If you didn’t have the centipede,” Mead said, “I’d have a hard time believing it, but you clearly do.”

“I will make my own donation,” Stevic told her, “both for Colonel Mapstone, my bounty, and that of the other women.”

When he told her how much, she turned to Laren and asked, “Is he telling the truth?”

With a very sober expression, Laren nodded.

“I knew you were doing well as a merchant,” Mead said, “but I underestimated how well. I will not do so again.”

He had nearly depleted the G’ladheon stock in Varos, and had already lost his meager income to Mead. Where he was going to find the means to pay her he was not sure. He only hoped his sisters had everything well in hand at home.

“You’ve already the angweld cloth in your possession,” he said. “What more do you want?”

“Obviously, as much as I can get to cover my crew and the trouble we’re going through to safely return you to King Zachary, including the ships. But we’ll negotiate, Stevic, for your bounty. For old time’s sake.”

Good gods, he thought. Negotiate his bounty. How magnanimous. She’d be able to retire to her own queendom if she wished. But then, he wasn’t one of Sacoridia’s top merchants without reason. His skills at dealing were well known and he might convince her to negotiate the rest, as well. He placed his hand to his heart and bowed in his seat. “Clan G’ladheon is at your service.”

• • •

That night, as Laren lay in his arms in the captain’s cabin of Messenger, he said, “That was clever thinking telling Mead that King Zachary would pay more than King Farrad Vir, and also reminding her that you could only tell the truth because of the centipede. But can Zachary really pay that ransom?”

It was some while before she answered, but finally after readjusting her head on his shoulder, she replied, “I honestly don’t know. Typically, the realm does not pay ransoms for captives unless they are high nobles. Because of our relationship, he might be willing to use his personal treasure, though I am unsure of his wealth. There are certainly enough jewels and such held by Clan Hillander to satisfy a pirate. I think he’d find a way. Either that, or we betray Mead and hand her over.”

“By law she’ll hang if we do that,” he replied.

“So it is with pirates. Don’t forget how willing she is to hand us over to the Varosians. I know you have some history with her, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to receive a bounty for you.”

“I know. But I still don’t like it if it comes to that.”

“When I offered the duel, I fully intended to go to the end. I would not have stopped at first wounding. I would have killed her if the fight went my way. I will not return to Varos, no matter the cost. I would rather die.”

“Please,” he said, “don’t talk like that.”

“I know and I’m sorry, but it is the truth. I certainly had a chance of winning the duel, but fortunately we didn’t have to go so far. I will tell Mead anything I have to, promise her anything I must, to get home.”

“She’s smart. She may figure out she’s being deceived.”

“She isn’t being deceived, not exactly. I am pretty sure Zachary has the wherewithal to satisfy her avarice, maybe even offer her land and such. If she decides we’re being dishonest, we’ll deal with it when it happens. Besides, she’s not the only smart one.”

“You must be referring to Sevano,” he teased.

She laughed and it was a light and good sound, especially after the evening’s events. “For some reason beyond preserving our lives and freedom, it feels especially urgent that I return to Sacor City. I can’t get it out of my head that I’ve some task to attend to there, and if I don’t . . .”

“The world will end?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied, “but I have gotten to a point that I know when to trust my intuition.” She paused and gazed into space. “Squirrels.”

“Squirrels?”

“I keep thinking about squirrels. The urgency I feel to return has something to do with squirrels.”

“Squirrels?” he said again in incredulity.

“I know how it sounds,” she replied. “I don’t know why.”

They fell silent for a time, the ship lightly creaking around them.

Stevic turned onto his side to face her and toyed with a copper strand of her hair. “Well, this squirrel,” he said, “is ready to make good use of this cabin tonight before Captain Humble takes over in the morning.”

“Should I be worried you’ll grow a bushy tail?”

“Oh,” he said, “it is not a bushy tail you need worry about, my dear dueling colonel.”

“Then why don’t you show me what I should be worried about, hmm?”

“Gladly.” He was more than pleased when she responded to him with equal enthusiasm.

He determined there would only be smooth sailing to return his precious red-haired “cargo” home.

THE ANCHORING OF KARIGAN

Karigan arose from hazy dreams and sat straight up in bed. “I’m fine! I’m fine!”

When no one responded, she realized she was alone with an empty chair beside her bed. It took her a moment to recall where she was—not her own chamber, but in a room in a royal guest suite. She gazed at the opulent furnishings and decor. Definitely not her chamber. The last thing she solidly remembered was startling Ben. He hadn’t magically put her back to sleep, but she should have known better than to accept a cup of tea from a mender. He’d dosed her.

She hopped out of bed onto the deep carpet. They’d put her in one of her own nightgowns, but she saw a fresh set of her civilian clothes neatly folded on a dresser.

She peered out the window to discover a fresh coating of snow on the castle’s western grounds. How much time had passed? How long ago had the harvest ball and Feast of Vendane been? A few days? It was all very disorienting.

Well, she thought, if no one was here keeping an eye on her, perhaps she could escape. Not that this room in the royal wing wasn’t comfortable or luxurious, but she missed her own chamber and her cat. Her horse, too. As fine as her accommodations were, a pretty cage was still a cage.

And she was fine. No longer did the sensation of falling through the heavens afflict her. No longer did she experience strange visions that she couldn’t remember but felt only a whisper away, separated from the here and now by the thinnest of veneers, like a skin of ice on a puddle. She hugged herself as if to ward off the freezing chill of the endless dark.

Enough, she told herself. She needed to make her escape. She hastily washed up in the basin of water beside her bed and threw a sweater over her nightgown. She stepped into her slippers as they were the only footwear she could find, and grabbed her other belongings. She crept to the room’s doorway, wary of encountering anyone who would order her back to bed.

If her quarters were anything like Estora’s apartments, there would be bedrooms in one direction, and public rooms in the other. She peered this way and that. No one seemed to be about, so she tiptoed into the corridor and headed in the direction of where she supposed the sitting room to be. When she reached its doorway, she paused and cautiously peered inside. A fire crackled on the hearth, but no one was there.

With a sense of elation that freedom was nigh, she hurried across the sitting room to the door that led to the outside world. Slowly she cracked the door open and looked out, but it was all black, as in, Weapon black. Travis stared sternly down at her.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

“I want to see my cat.”

He did not reply, but a voice from behind her declared, “Rider G’ladheon, no one has given you permission to leave.”

“Oh, dear gods, no,” she muttered. “Not Cranky Aisla!”

Travis, who was near enough to hear her, raised an eyebrow. Slowly she turned around.

“Mender Aisla,” she said.

“That’s right. You are not supposed to be out of bed.”

“I’m fine,” Karigan said. “I’ll rest if I must, but in my own chamber.”

Aisla crossed her arms and shook her head. “I don’t particularly enjoy watching you sleep, but no.”

Karigan shuddered at the idea of Aisla watching her while she lay helplessly asleep and snored. She looked to Travis for support in her bid to escape, but he was unmoved. Thus defeated, she shuffled her slippered feet back toward her room, fuming all the way.

Ben was subsequently summoned to check her out. When he arrived, she turned away from the window where she’d been watching the snow fall and glared at him.

“Now, don’t look at me like that,” he said.

“You will not dose me or do the forehead-touching thing,” she replied.

“That’s for me to decide. How are you feeling?”

“Annoyed. And I’m starving. Why won’t anyone let me leave?”

“Good sign you’re hungry. You don’t like it here? It’s nicer than the mending wing.”

“I want my own chamber.”

He set his mender’s satchel on a small table. “It is up to the king, but if I tell him you are well enough, he will undoubtedly release you.”

She stood stolidly by the window with her arms crossed. “Why is everyone being so stubborn?”

“I am not sure we are the ones who are being stubborn.” He sat hard in the chair with an exhausted air. “Frankly, Karigan, we’ve had to keep watch so we could anchor you; that is, hold on to you so you wouldn’t slip away to wherever it is that you go.”

“Where I go . . .”

He nodded solemnly. “Even the queen did so with assistance from the Weapons.”

“I remember seeing her sitting in that chair.”

“The king, too. He spent many hours with you.”

Dear gods, she thought, feeling slightly faint. Why would he . . . ? She knew why he would, but he shouldn’t have. She was thrilled he had, but also alarmed. Dear gods. If people hadn’t known what lay between them, they surely did now.

“Don’t worry,” Ben said as if sensing her thoughts, “it has all been carried out with discretion.”

She wasn’t sure it made her feel any better. “How long have I been laid up?”

“Several days.”

“Several days?”

“Nearly a week. I had to keep using the sleep spell on you or dosing you—now don’t look at me like that! It helped decrease your episodes. We’ve let you stay awake now because you haven’t had an episode in a couple days. I don’t know what happened to you at the harvest ball to cause these episodes, some force of magic or your ability gone amok, but all of us who anchored you at one time or another felt as if we were being dragged into a vast well of darkness, though there were pinpoints of light like stars.” His eyes lost focus as he remembered. “It was indescribably cold, suffocating. Very disorienting. Frightening, no matter how brief the experience.”

She left the window and sat on the edge of her bed. His words brought her experiences back to her so clear and sharp, of tumbling through the heavens even as the avatar’s armor died and left her exposed to the airless nothingness. So cold it burned. The terror of being lost forever, falling, falling . . .

“Karigan?”

“Huh?”

“I was afraid you were about to slip away again,” he said.

“I was just remembering.” Except her other visions remained vague and dreamlike. She rubbed her face to dispel the cobwebs. “What became of the wraith?”

“It escaped. Disappeared.”

She nodded, unsurprised. Lichant had been powerful. Unexpectedly powerful. Visions of Lichant driving its sword into Salvistar, and of her enemies feasting on his flesh.

She cried out in grief and despair into the yawning void of the universe and disgorged black vapor from her lungs like ocean water gushing from a drowning victim. It streamed from her nose and her mouth. She bled the substance of the heavens in which the avatar could travel, but which was ill-suited to a mortal woman.

• • •

She sat up in bed. “I’m fine! I’m fine!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said a crusty voice.

Through her clearing eyes, she found Master Mender Vanlynn and Aisla nearby enjoying a pot of tea.

“He did it again,” Karigan muttered.

“Did what?” Aisla asked. “And who?”

“Ben. The touch-the-forehead thing.”

“No,” Vanlynn said. “You did it all on your own this time.”

“I did?”

Vanlynn, her face all wizened wrinkles, nodded. “He told us you screamed, releasing dark effluvium, and collapsed. Apparently it was quite a scream. Poor Ben was rattled.”

“He wasn’t the only one,” Aisla said acerbically.

“He described your emissions as a peculiar substance that froze the air,” Vanlynn said, “but it quickly dissipated.”

Karigan rubbed her chest. It was sore. She had released what she absorbed when lost among the stars. Whatever it was that the heavens were made of, it had been within her. But now it was gone and she sighed in relief.

“I don’t think I’ll be slipping away anymore,” she said.

“Good,” Vanlynn replied. “Aisla, would you please send a runner to fetch Ben?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When Aisla left the room, Vanlynn set her teacup aside. “You are a very unusual patient, Rider G’ladheon. I don’t entirely understand the circumstances around your malady. I am not sure anyone does, but I get the sense you are not always who you seem.” The master mender’s keen eyes sparked as she gazed at Karigan. “I am not sure it is for any of us to understand. We live in very strange days.”

Karigan didn’t know what to say to that, so she kept her peace.

As the menders checked her over, Vanlynn mentioned a new constellation of stars that had formed around the same time Karigan had gone missing and that the star masters called it the Great Horse.

“He has been transformed.” The words slipped from Karigan’s mouth in a dark voice that lacked emotion as though she were not the one who had spoken them.

The menders stared at her with sudden fear and as if they did not recognize her. Aisla actually stepped back.

She learned from the menders that, after her disappearance at the harvest ball, in addition to her recovery time in the royal wing, not only had she missed the winter holiday, Night of Aeryc, but about a month had passed since Feast of Vendane.

“You’d brief awakenings now and then when you returned,” Vanlynn said, “where you fought us and seemed to speak in tongues.”

“What?”

“Some very strange language, if it was even that. It was like hearing it but not hearing it at the same time. Like a thunderclap without the sound. In any case, we found it safest to keep you sedated.”

A strange language. Might she have been more avatar than herself during some of those awakenings? Had Westrion been trying to speak through her in the language of the gods?

Blue light glowed from Ben’s hands as he passed them over her body. She felt empty. A good empty in terms of expelling what she had absorbed in the heavens, but a cavernous empty as someone who had eaten no solid food in a long time.

“I’m starving,” she muttered.

“They are bringing you food from the royal kitchen,” Vanlynn said, “and it will be here shortly. No fear of that. And I know you have many questions about what you have missed, but your officers can fill you in.”

“You missed emptying sick pots in the Rider wing,” Ben informed her.

Karigan grimaced. “Fever making the rounds?”

“Bad year for it,” he replied. “In a way you are fortunate to have escaped it. The worst has passed among the Riders, and everyone has recovered, or nearly so.”

“That’s a relief.”

Master Vanlynn stood and leaned on her cane. “You seem to be doing well, Rider. Do you agree, Ben?”

“She feels more normal,” he replied. “Mostly, at any rate. Before when I checked her with my ability, she felt very strange. Hard to describe.”

“Can I return to the Rider wing now?” Karigan said.

“We will inform the king you are doing well,” Master Vanlynn said, “and he will decide. In the meantime, eat what you can when your meal is brought in, but do not overdo and make yourself sick. You may have visitors, as well. I am told there are those who are anxious to see you and until now we’ve forbidden them, except those who tended and anchored you. Aisla will remain for now to keep watch and ensure you do not relapse.”

Oh, yay, Karigan thought.

As Ben and Vanlynn left the room, Aisla lingered behind and stared at her.

“What?” Karigan demanded.

“I am still trying to understand what makes you so special.” Aisla gestured at the room. “These accommodations for a messenger, the attention of the king, queen, and master mender. I know you’ve accomplished important work for the realm, but so have many others and they haven’t received this attention. Granted, they haven’t been made Eletians, but still. Why you?”

Karigan knew the answer, but she certainly wasn’t going to speak of it with Cranky Aisla. If she were suffering from illness or injury and in desperate need of a mender, she wouldn’t willingly seek out Aisla if she were the last mender on Earth. She was, in a word, unpleasant.

“By the way,” Aisla said, “I heard you were betrothed. Word is that it’s old Lord Garvy. Congratulations.” There was a malicious look in her eye.

They thought she was engaged to Lord Toothless? “Not by a longshot,” Karigan said, “but I hear he’s looking for a sturdy young wife to bear him heirs. I’m sure he’d find you adequate for his needs.”

Aisla tossed her head. “Green Riders,” she said with a contemptuous air, and stomped out of the room.

She had, Karigan thought, a chip on her shoulder and a bad temperament for a mender. But Lord Garvy? Ew. Maybe it would be better to slip back into the heavens and hide from the world, but the idea of being adrift in that infinite dark with no one to anchor her was terrifying.

MYSTERIOUS WOMAN

The menders had told Karigan to expect to feel drowsy now and then and not to fight it, to take a nap if necessary. It was all part of healing, they said, not to mention a product of Ben applying his true healing ability to repair her body. At the moment she felt anything but drowsy. Soup and a biscuit had been brought to her and she felt much more herself after filling her belly. After eating, a servant prepared a bath for her in which she reveled in the heat that warmed her, but did not entirely melt the cold of the heavens from her bones. Just thinking of that endless space of nothing between the stars made her shiver, sending ripples across the steaming surface of the water.

She forced herself out of the tub before the water grew tepid and dressed in the shirt and skirt that had been left for her, and pulled her sweater back over her head. She worked a comb through her hair, feeling renewed. Wind rattled the window and a glance outside revealed whirling, gusting flurries, and she shivered again.

Too restless to watch the day pass by, she shuffled down to the sitting room. A brisk fire burned in the hearth and Aisla glanced up from the book she was reading, and hastily returned to it. Karigan thought about sitting before the fire, but after being abed for so long, and stuck in the heavens or wherever, she feared she’d lost all her muscle and conditioning, so she started walking back and forth from one end of the suite of rooms to the other, swinging her arms. She’d need to get training again with Master Drent. Maybe someone could bring her her swords if she had to stay here much longer. When next she reached the sitting room, she grabbed the heavy iron poker. She went through some rudimentary forms and found the poker would do, and was pleased that she did not seem to be as out of condition as she had expected. Strange that, but did she really know how time worked when she was the avatar? Or among the stars?

“What are you doing?” Aisla demanded, clearly annoyed.

“Working on my conditioning.”

“You are not to overdo so soon.”

“I’m not—”

Before she finished, her visitors arrived. To her surprise, it was Estora and Mara. She lowered her poker and bowed.

“Well, look who’s up and about,” Mara said, “and ready to do something dangerous with that poker.”

Karigan hastily replaced it by the hearth.

“It is very good to see you up,” Estora said.

Mara gave her a hug, and so did Estora, who wore her usual light scent of lavender.

“You may be excused, Aisla,” Estora said, “to attend to your other duties. We will keep an eye on Rider G’ladheon.”

Aisla looked more irritated than usual at being dismissed. Perhaps she had relished the opportunity to remain in the queen’s presence.

When she was gone, Mara said, “You were about to use that poker on Aisla, weren’t you.”

“Hah! If only. She really doesn’t like me.”

“Trust me when I say,” Mara replied, “she doesn’t like anyone.”

They sat before the fire and Estora said, “His Majesty will be along to speak to you about where you went after you vanished during the harvest ball, but it is audience day, so it may be a while.”

An eager tremor fluttered through Karigan at the prospect of seeing Zachary. She cleared her throat and rearranged her skirts about her so as not to reveal her excitement.

They asked how she was feeling, but not directly about her disappearance.

“The king will not address the details of what happened to you with his advisers, nor with Captain Connly,” Estora said, “and not even with me, though the danger you were in was clearly of an extraordinary type. We are, of course, curious, but he asked us not to press you.”

“I understand,” Karigan replied, and she thanked the gods that Zachary was trying to preserve the secret that she was Westrion’s avatar. “All I can say is that the wraith set off a strange chain of events the night of the ball.”

She could tell both Estora and Mara were disappointed she would say no more. They told her about the new constellation that had appeared in the night sky and knew from the Eletians it meant the passing of a god. She had to bite her tongue to not tell them she’d been with Salvistar when he was slain. The constellation, they said, brought fear and uncertainty to many.

“Doomsayers have flocked to every street corner and square,” Mara said. “You wouldn’t believe it. They say outrageous things about it being the end of the world and even the moon priests can’t get them to shut up, so the city guard has been ordered by the mayor to temporarily lock them up for vagrancy. When they’re released in a day or two they’re right back at it.”

“We have been reassuring the people as we can,” Estora said.

“Riders have been sent to all the provinces with the king’s reassurances that no one should panic,” Mara added.

They chatted a while longer about what had been happening while she was missing and then under Ben’s sleeping spell. It appeared, aside from the doomsayers, she had not missed much.

“Oh, here is some news,” Estora said, brightening. “Both of my children can roll over, and Dav looks like he wants to start crawling.”

Karigan knew almost nothing about babies and frowned. “I don’t understand. Aren’t babies supposed to do those things?”

“Yes, Karigan, but only as they grow older and have the ability,” Estora replied. “They are learning and developing and becoming stronger so they can do those things. Before long they’ll be walking and talking.”

Of course. Now she felt like a nitwit.

“Truth be told,” Estora said, “a mother’s enthusiasm for her child’s smallest achievement can be tiresome to others, but should you have an interest, I can regale you in detail over every little burble and smile. It would please me if you would come visit them.”

“Babies don’t seem to like me,” Karigan replied.

“Oh, come now. It can’t be that bad.”

Karigan had not been exaggerating.

Mara moved them on to their next topic. “Your secretary has been here numerous times as he is most anxious to see you.”

Damnation, Karigan thought. She’d been absent a month or more, so it wasn’t surprising issues had come up. It could not mean anything good. She’d contact him when she was able.

“There was nothing we could do to aid him,” Mara said, “since it is clan business, but we thought it was important to warn you. I know you have been in charge since your aunt’s illness and with your father away.”

“Any news on my father? The colonel?” Karigan asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Estora answered. “It’s still too early to hear anything. However, someone else came to see you. Karigan . . . your grandfather has come to Sacor City and would like to meet you.”

Karigan froze. “My grandfather?”

“Yes, your father’s father.”

She sat back into the sofa and shook her head. After the marriage contract dispute with the Turvals, she could only imagine he wanted to persuade her to honor the contract or, likely, a new one since she had burned the old. It was all so tiresome.

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“No,” Estora replied, “but he was quite insistent.”

“Well, I’ve no interest in seeing him.”

“We can send him away if you wish,” Estora replied, “but perhaps it is worth hearing him out, yes? From my understanding, you have never met because of the rift between him and your father. We don’t all have a chance to meet our elder relatives, and in this case it might be an opportunity to see the other side, as it were. I think sometimes when our ties to our family are cut, we are left somewhat adrift with questions that will never be answered, and with many opportunities lost. Are you not curious to find out what he’s like?”

She had a good idea of what he was like from her father and aunts, and she highly doubted she’d sympathize with “the other side.” The idea of finding a connection with the island G’ladheons was so foreign a concept to her that even while growing up she had never wondered much about them. Yes, there was a little curiosity there, but she wasn’t sure meeting him was worth it unless it was to warn him away from her father and aunts.

“I don’t know,” she said at last.

“Think about it,” Estora replied. “We won’t send him away unless you really want us to, and you don’t have to see him until you’re ready. Telagioth and his Eletians will wish to see you, as well, but they spend their time encamped somewhere out in the woods as they refuse hospitality anywhere in the city, including the castle.” She then stood, and Mara and Karigan followed suit. “I’ve other appointments to attend to, and do not worry, I believe it is on the king’s mind to grant you leave to return to your quarters if you so wish, but he will tell you himself when he comes to question you. Until then, you should remain here. The servants will bring anything you need.”

She took Karigan’s hands into her own. “I am so glad you’re returned to us and that you are well. We were quite concerned.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Karigan replied.

Estora squeezed her hands and smiled. “We value you very much, my lady.” With that she swept out.

Mara lingered behind. “We are all curious about what happened to you, but it sounds as if we’ll have to remain curious.”

“I would like nothing more than to tell you everything,” Karigan said, “but it’s not anything I can talk about at this point. Perhaps one day.”

“All right, mysterious woman, I get it. All I know is that Condor was very worried, which of course worried the rest of us, and then when you returned, we had to anchor you from going away again to wherever it was. I’ll make sure everyone knows not to pester you about it.”

“Thanks. How is my Condor? And Ghost Kitty?”

“Both are very well now. Ghost Kitty has been leaving fur all over my bed, and we’ve been spoiling them both.”

Karigan smiled. It was good to hear.

“I’ve got to go, too,” Mara said. “Meeting with the crew at Rider stables. But, if you need someone to talk to about anything, you know where to find me.”

They hugged and Mara left. Karigan dropped back onto the sofa. Mara had said “anything,” which could have meant where she’d been, her grandfather, or, very possibly, Zachary. She could not talk about being the avatar, or the disastrous straits her clan business was in, or about Zachary. It didn’t leave much.

A weariness settled over her after Estora’s and Mara’s visit. She hoped Zachary arrived soon so she could roam free of restrictions, but a nap sounded increasingly desirable.

She yawned. A quick nap on the sofa wouldn’t hurt. Yes, she’d take a quick nap and freshen up before Zachary arrived. She was out as soon as she shut her eyes.

TOOL OF THE GODS

It was hard to breathe, as though some great weight rested on her chest. As the haze of dreams dissipated and the particulars faded from memory, she slowly awakened to find a pair of coal black eyes peering at her at very close range, and an equally black nose inches from her own. Eyes and nose were set in rough, white fur.

“What . . . ?”

A pink tongue lashed out to lick her lips and nose.

“Ugh!” She wiped her mouth. “Blech!”

“Finder, come,” said a familiar male voice.

“Oof!” she exclaimed when the terrier launched off her belly to the floor.

It took a few moments for her to gather her wits and realize what the presence of a Hillander terrier meant, and to whom the voice belonged. She turned her head to see Zachary sitting in a chair by the fire with a book open on his lap.

“Karigan,” he said, “how—?”

She missed the rest of his sentence for she hastily jumped to her feet to bow. “Your Majes—” However, a blanket that had apparently been spread over her as she napped slipped to her feet and entangled her ankles, causing her to trip and fall. She could not save herself. As she hurtled toward the floor, she visualized in a mere instant herself sprawled in an inglorious heap at her king’s feet. Only, her vision did not come true. Zachary caught her.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

“Yes,” she murmured, “you do.”

His nose was as close to hers as Finder’s had been. Just as she thought of that, she’d the ridiculous notion of Zachary licking her nose. She snorted and laughed, and laughed even harder when she thought of better uses for his tongue. He raised his eyebrows in surprise and carefully righted her.

“Sorry,” she said, dabbing at tears. She couldn’t stop giggling.

“Are you quite all right?” he asked, clearly baffled.

Idiot, she chided herself, and when another snorting laugh escaped her, she clapped her hand over her mouth. Dear gods, get a grip on yourself, girl.

She cleared her throat, stepped out of the blanket snarled around her feet, and gave her king a proper curtsy. “Your Majesty.”

“My lady,” he replied with a bow.

They stood there gazing at one another and she realized her hair and clothing must be rumpled and wrinkled. And she was barefoot. Quickly she stepped into her slippers.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you were here. I meant to be awake, but I napped and thought I’d be awake before you arrived. I meant to be, but I . . . wasn’t. I, um, hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.” Dear gods, now she was babbling.

“Not too long,” he replied. “I’d my book so it seemed a very short time.”

She cringed inwardly. Long enough for him to undoubtedly hear her snore. But then, it wouldn’t be the first time.

“Shall we sit?” he asked.

He returned to his chair and she sat on the sofa as decorously as her bedraggled condition allowed. Finder lay stretched out by the fire.

“I’m afraid I was anxious to see you,” he said.

That sent a flutter through her. “You should have awakened me.”

“The menders told me you might still be weary. I did not wish to deny you any healing sleep you might need. How are you?”

Flustered? Embarrassed? Off-kilter? Happy to see him? Definitely. “I’m well.”

“Do you feel up to talking about what happened?” he asked.

“I do, though much of it feels like a bad dream.”

“I . . . understand, at least from the little I experienced when I anchored you. The cold . . .”

If she closed her eyes and thought about it, the darkness filled her mind, the sensation of falling, the frigid bite of the heavens, and she had been somewhat protected by the avatar’s armor.

“Karigan?”

When she opened her eyes, he was, to her surprise, on his knee before her. He held her hand and the warmth of his touch thawed the memory of the bitter cold.

“It’s all right, it’s all right. I’m fine, really.”

“It was like you began to slip away again and I—” Something caught in his throat. “I could not endure it if that were to happen.”

“I am not going anywhere,” she replied. “I promise.”

He bowed his head as if to collect himself, then kissed her hand before resuming his seat. If she’d been flustered before, she was doubly so now. She let go a little breath, feeling as though he’d moved a million miles away and not just a few feet.

“I should start by saying that few know you’ve been missing,” he said. “The Green Riders know, of course, the Eletians, and select menders and Weapons. By the nature of your affiliation with Westrion, it seems prudent to maintain as much secrecy as possible. Those asking after you have been told you were ill with fever, a very plausible explanation given the sickness that has circulated through the city and castle. Those who know you were missing have been forbidden to speak of it. As far as the avatar business, I know it is not something you would wish to share, and out of caution I have told no one, although the Eletians seem aware to some extent.”

“Thank you. I believe it would be dangerous if it got out.”

“I quite agree. The beliefs of people are already challenged by the appearance of a new constellation in the night sky.”

“The process of its formation swept me away,” she said. “The death of Salvistar.”

He looked unsurprised and shook his head. “It seems impossible such a thing could ever happen, but much that had once seemed impossible has come to pass. Why don’t you start from the beginning with the wraith’s arrival.”

“When I am serving as the avatar,” she said, “it is like I am at a distance. Everything is happening from afar. A dream almost, so I can’t clearly remember everything.”

“Do your best. Did the wraith indicate why it was seeking you?”

She crossed her arms as if chilled as she recalled Lichant’s words. “To take me to Mornhavon. To break and . . . turn me.”

Finder must have sensed her distress for he jumped up onto the sofa beside her and nosed her hand for pets. He leaned against her to make his belly readily accessible, which she promptly rubbed. When she looked up, Zachary’s expression was intense.

“You would never . . . The wraith will not get near you again. I’ve had my best trackers on its trail, but it seems it has made its way toward Blackveil. I’ve had Rider Quick placing more wards around the castle and warned Lord Alton at the wall to be vigilant.”

She did not think Merla’s wards would stand up to a creature like Lichant, but it would at least give them some time to ready for combat should it attack again. “I cannot stay a prisoner in the castle.”

“I know.”

“Nor in the city. My duties—”

“Your duties are likely to keep you nearby for the duration. But you are correct, you do have duties when you are ready, and I will not restrict your movements.”

She sank back into the sofa in relief. Finder nudged her hand to encourage her to continue with the belly rubs. She did so, but grimaced at an unpleasant whiff of gas he gave off. Still, it was comforting to pet the little mop of fur while she told Zachary about Lichant’s god-killing sword.

“Yes, the Eletians told me of it. It is yet another weapon we are up against.”

It was even harder to explain what had followed, but bits and pieces were coming back to her.

“I don’t know if this is something that really happened,” she said, “or if it was actually a part of a dream, but it was like I landed on the crystal staircase to the heavens where Sevelon stood guard. We . . . conversed.”

“Sevelon? Really? What in the world did you talk about?”

She laughed. “I wish I remembered, but I think when we were done Sevelon pushed me down the stairs. I also talked to F’ryan. His ghost, I guess. In the place where my time as a Rider began along the Kingway.”

“Rider Coblebay?”

“Yes. All I recall was him telling me to take care of his horse. Condor, of course. Most of the rest of what I remember is the falling through the stars. Except . . .”

“Except what?”

“The true nightmare.” She told him of the dark ball and the return of Shawdell the Eletian.

“That is what you tried to tell me before Ben put the sleep spell on you,” Zachary said. “That the gray entity was actually some presence of Shawdell. I am sure Telagioth will be very interested to know this. How Shawdell has survived in any form is hard to believe. And now it sounds as if he seeks vengeance.”

She hugged Finder closer and kissed his fuzzy head, then waved the air in front of her face at another gassy emission. “I have nothing to add to any of this. What was real, what was not, I don’t know. What it means that Salvistar is gone? No, not gone, but transformed. I remember now. That’s what Sevelon said, that he was transformed. But what it means I’ve no idea. The avatar is just a tool and the gods are not required to explain.”

“Maybe they should be,” Zachary muttered. “You are so much more than a tool, and if the gods can’t see that . . .”

She called to mind coming face-to-face with the gods Aeryc and Aeryon, Valora and Lodan, and, of course, Westrion on the battlefield of the Sleeping Waelds. Aeryon forbade her to speak of it, and she would not tell even Zachary. Aeryon also promised her that she would know true suffering sometime in the future for the crime of merely looking upon the true visages of the gods.

“At least they didn’t burn my eyes out,” she muttered.

“What?” Zachary said.

“Uh, nothing, just something I was thinking about.”

They sat in awkward silence until Zachary finally said, “There is something else we need to speak of.” He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“What is it?” What new concern or danger was on his mind?

His gaze was unswerving. “Us. We need to talk about us.”

HEALING WOUNDS

“Oh,” Karigan said. She found she was not prepared for such a discussion.

“It killed me,” Zachary began, “that my last words to you before you vanished were to send you away. I felt . . . I felt my words were responsible.”

So often he concealed his thoughts and emotions. He must as king, but now he sat there unmasked, anguish rippling across his features.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I heard you’d been engaged, and that was what my thoughts were. I wanted, and still want, for you to be free as you choose.” There was an almost imperceptible quaver in his voice. “Whatever you choose, you will always be foremost to me. I don’t know how I would cope without you. But I also could not live with myself if I caused you discontent and deprived you of finding happiness with someone who could give all of himself to you. As a king, I cannot. As a married man, I cannot, despite my wife’s encouragement. To keep a secret relationship is not fair and a disservice to who you are and how I regard you. I will not ask it of you no matter how much I wish . . .”

His unfinished sentence hung between them.

She remembered him walking away from her at the ball after they had danced the last time. Truly, whatever their relationship had been since the first they had met, it had been a dance, tiptoeing around the fact they were falling for each other, and then admitting they had in fact fallen in love. For so long she had tried to avoid being in his presence even while desiring it, because it hurt that they could not be together, and also because temptation hovered around all their interactions. She felt that temptation thrum within her now. The dance required an outward appearance of platonic respect, to pretend there was nothing between them, while inwardly their mutual yearning blazed.

She admired how much he loved his country and people, how he took care of them as only the best of rulers would, the honorable way in which he governed the realm. Few leaders could do so without falling prey to greed or malfeasance. All this, and the courage, too, to stand in battle against the enemies of his people.

For all she admired his attributes as a king and warrior, he was not a god or statue or some figure of legend, but a man like any other who lived and breathed, dreamed and desired. It was the man she loved. It was how one of his smiles directed her way made her heart leap, the thrill of his touch, and feeling at ease with him despite the fact he was her king.

She recalled his tenderness in the north as she suffered from wounds of physical and mental torture. He’d been kind, patient, and protective of her, telling her stories of his boyhood to take her mind off her pain, bringing Condor to her tent when she as too ill to go to him, and sitting with her for hours, talking to her and holding her hand as she drifted in and out of the nightmares that tormented her. Without his love and persistence, she, broken in mind, spirit, and body, would likely have died.

To be “free” to find another love? She wanted no other, and she would seek no other. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks as she imagined life without him.

He moved to sit beside her and produced a handkerchief. “Karigan,” he said so softly, “I did not mean to upset you so. It’s the last thing I wanted. I should not have brought it up when you are just recovering.”

She accepted the handkerchief, dabbed at her tears, and blew her nose. “I didn’t expect to become so emotional,” she said feeling like an idiot. “I’m sorry.”

“Dearheart,” Zachary replied, brushing a tendril of hair out of her face, “there is no shame in it. You are safe with me.”

She heard the truth in his words, felt it deeply, which almost set her off again. Must still be tired. Overtired. As tears dried up, she took in his close proximity, the openness of his body, and how he leaned slightly toward her.

Finder, seated between the two humans and suddenly craving attention, jumped from one to the other demanding belly rubs.

“Off,” Zachary ordered.

At first Finder stubbornly refused, but as his master’s voice grew more stern, he jumped off the sofa to reclaim his place by the hearth and lay down with his head on his front paws. He looked as morose as only a dog could.

The distraction gave Karigan a moment to compose herself. “I almost wish,” she said, “we could return to an earlier time before we got so deep into this. Although, that wasn’t always fun, either. I do not know what to say or do. This is tearing us both apart. I think the only answer is to send me on an errand to the other end of the continent—on foot so it takes a long, long time. Or send me on a voyage across the sea to the farthest known port. But I can’t leave, not with Mornhavon rising.”

“I am willing to abide by your wishes,” he replied. “Even if it is to journey afar. Either that, or we go on as we have, or . . .”

“Or we toss honor out the window, trust Estora knows best, and go all in. But secretly, of course. There is no single good answer.”

“Succinctly put,” he replied. “In another life, I’d have been just the lord-governor of Hillander Province, freer to an extent to be with whom I desired.”

“In that life, I’d be serving a despotic king,” she reminded him. “We are better off as things are.”

“I suppose.” He scrubbed his beard, then gazed directly at her. “So what will it be?”

“What?”

“You do not wish to travel afar with Mornhavon on the rise, but the other two possibilities remain. Which do we choose?”

“Secrecy or honor . . .” she mused. Well, she already had a boatload of secrets. Would one more hurt? And was it truly dishonorable if his wife was pushing them together? She gazed speculatively at him, his warm brown eyes, the crease of concern across his brow. It was almost as if a force pulled on her to draw closer to him.

Honor, she told herself, but she could not seem to make herself say it aloud. Instead, she gave in to the pull and flung herself into his arms just as he reached for her as if they were of one mind. They kissed long and deep and urgently, propelled by desire so long denied. There was no thinking, no questioning, only the desperate need to touch, to meld into one another. They both shook with excitement as heat swelled between them.

Finder whimpered beside the fire, but Karigan and Zachary were aware of only one another in a way they had never permitted themselves before, as if they were the only two beings in the world. Gone were all their concerns of impending war, of falling endlessly through the heavens. Gone were any concerns of propriety. Gone were their inhibitions.

Zachary’s hands followed the path of her spine beneath her shirt, his fingers trailing over the ridges and furrows of her scarred skin. She stiffened.

“Karigan?” he asked.

In an instant she was back in the Lone Forest strung up in the “workshop” of Nyssa Starling, helpless as the thongs of the whip flayed the flesh of her back. Nyssa had declared Karigan one of her finest canvases after lashing her to the brink of death.

“Karigan?” Zachary asked more urgently.

She squeezed her eyes shut as the lash fell again.

Months after the torture, she’d finally been able to view the damage for the first time in a mirror. She had not recognized the person with the skin of a monster looking back at her. She had wondered then what she wondered now—how could Zachary want that? How could he want her?

“If you do not wish to—” he began.

“I do,” she whispered, “ but . . .”

“Yes?”

“My back,” she replied.

“Dear gods. Should I send for a mender?”

“No, no,” she said. “The scars.” She looked away.

“Ah,” he said in understanding. “You believe I would find them repellent.”

She nodded.

He placed his palm, his warm palm, against her cheek, his eyes going soft once more. “My love, nothing could be further from the truth. I’d have done anything to trade places to spare you the hurt.” He shook his head. “I saw your wounds when they were fresh, at their worst, and I wished more than anything that I could have taken the pain from you, but I have not that ability. You are a woman of astonishing strength and resilience, and when I say I love you, my brave lady, I mean all of you.”

His words reached her deep within and healed wounds she had not known needed healing. She leaned into him and he held her, comforting her, asking nothing of her. Reassured and feeling embraced by a wave of love, she kissed him to show him how she felt, and he eagerly reciprocated. It was as if their pause only increased the intensity of their need for one another.

He nuzzled her neck and she gave a breathy laugh.

“You are amused?” he asked.

“If I had whiskers,” she said, “you’d laugh, too.”

“Now that’s a vision I never expected.” He combed his fingers through his beard with a mischievous glint in his eye. “So, you are ticklish. This is good to know.”

“Your whiskers tickle, but they are also a little prickly.”

He used the pause to throw off his longcoat. “Not too prickly, I hope.”

“Other things make up for it.”

“Like this?”

He eased her back onto the sofa so that she reclined and reapplied himself to tickling her neck, kissing the spot where her pulse quickened. The flick of his tongue on her skin brought waves of pleasure. He warmed her in a way her steaming bath had not. He chased the chill of the heavens from her very bones, her very soul. She melted beneath him, wanted to nestle in the strength, safety, and comfort of his arms forever.

She stroked down his wide shoulders and sides to his waist, and fumbled with his belt buckle determined to know every inch of him. When, finally, she released his belt, she moved on to undoing the buttons of his fly.

“Damnation,” she muttered.

“Problem?” he murmured against her cheek in a distracted way.

She managed one button. “And men complain about the stays and corsets of women’s dress.”

“Do we? I rather fancy the challenge, but I can assist you with my trousers if you so desire.”

She managed a second button. “Hah!” she said with triumph. But oh, yes, she desired. She desired very much.

They spoke no more and remained oblivious to Finder’s whining as they focused on one another. He brushed the skin of her midsection with feathery kisses, moving to her breasts and arousing her pleasure and anticipation.

“I don’t want anyone else,” she whispered.

“There is only you,” he murmured.

They engaged once more in touching, exploring, and kissing with increasing intensity. His hand slipped beneath her skirt and glided up between her legs. Her pulse drummed in an urgent rhythm and she gasped. She in turn sensed his readiness. They were both more than ready. It had always been coming to this point. Over the years of yearning, desiring, restrained by rank and honor, it had always been their destiny.

Finally, they would unite as one.

KARIGAN’S SHADOW

Zachary froze.

What? Why did he stop?

He sniffed and glanced over his shoulder.

No, no, no, she thought, grabbing at the lapels of his waistcoat, but he sat back and cold air filled the gulf between them.

“What is it?” she asked in consternation.

Then she heard it, the unmistakable retching sound of a dog.

And then she smelled it, too, and her own stomach curdled.

“Oh, gods,” Zachary said, “it’s coming out both ends.”

Their amorous moment shattered, Zachary rose from the sofa and, holding his trousers up, stumbled to where the dog extruded bodily fluids all over the hearth.

“What the hells did you get into, boy?”

Karigan pulled herself back together and fanned the air in front of her face. The miasma clogged the room and was as vile as anything she had smelled on the battlefield.

Zachary buckled his belt and used the fire shovel to throw dead ash on some of the vomit. A live coal, however, accidently landed on the rug and caught fire. Karigan grabbed the blanket that had covered her earlier to beat out the flames. Between the smoke and baked vomit and diarrhea, she wanted to throw up herself, but finally she smothered the last flame.

She and Zachary, both panting with exertion, and not the pleasant kind, gazed at one another through the haze. Poor miserable Finder got sick again under the sofa and Karigan’s stomach took another turn. She forced the rising bile in her throat back down.

Zachary knelt to look at his dog. He shook his head.

“Will he be all right?” Karigan asked.

“Most likely, but I’ll send for Rider Harding to make sure.”

“Do you ever get the feeling,” she asked, “that this is some sort of message from the universe?”

“You’re the messenger and would know.” He smiled and rubbed his eyes, irritated by the smoke.

Before she could give him a tart reply, Fastion and Donal burst in.

“We smelled smoke,” Donal said, “then saw it coming from under the door.”

Both Weapons took in the haze that hung in the air.

“Did Sir Karigan try to burn the castle down again?” Fastion asked.

“I’m afraid it was me this time,” Zachary replied.

Then the fullness of the stench hit them. Fastion turned a little green.

Zachary glanced once more at Finder beneath the sofa, then climbed to his feet. “One of you send a runner for Rider Harding, please. Finder apparently got into something revolting but irresistible, and it’s made him very sick.”

“Yes, sire.” Fastion was the quicker of the two and bolted from the room.

“Sire?” Donal said.

“Yes?”

“You are gaping.”

“What?”

Donal nodded at his trousers.

“Uh, oops.”

Karigan tried not to blush at the implications as he rebuttoned his fly, wondering what Donal might think, but the Weapon’s expression remained as inscrutable as ever. Still, she could only imagine what he was thinking.

“I’m going to need help cleaning this up,” Zachary said. “Donal, could you ask a runner to go to Mistress Evans and ask her to send someone? Preferably someone with a strong stomach.”

Donal bowed and was off.

Zachary and Karigan looked at one another and burst out laughing.

“Poor Finder,” she said.

“Dogs,” he replied with a sigh.

“Dogs,” she agreed.

He rubbed her shoulder. “You look a little pale yourself and I don’t want all your rest undone. Return to the Rider wing as you wish, and we’ll talk more later.”

Did he really mean talk, or other things? She curtsied. “I hope Finder feels better soon.”

“I may relegate him to the kennels for the foreseeable future for interrupting us. I—” He was suddenly at an unusual loss for words. Swiftly he bent down and kissed her cheek. “Until next time, dearheart.”

The foul stink of Finder’s illness followed her out of the guest suite and down the corridor, but at least it faded the farther along she got. It, and the smoke, clung to her clothes, however. She needed another bath.

“Good gods,” she muttered, still off balance from her intimacy with Zachary, disappointed by the interruption, and yet relieved. If not for Finder’s upset gut, her passions would have ruled her and they might have committed actions that could never be reversed.

As it was, their intimacy complicated matters. After all, he was her king and not just any man to do with what she was, er, doing. Not just her king, but the king. She wanted very badly to be with him. It had felt so natural to be together, and yet she was assailed by guilt for betraying Estora and her own sense of honor. It was all so confusing, and still she hungered for Zachary and his touch.

“Ugh.” When she reached her chamber in the Rider wing she would take that bath cold, or maybe go outside and throw herself into the snow.

Her shadow self appeared leaning against the wall. You are overthinking it again. He could easily be yours, and only yours.

Karigan walked right past her, tried to block her from her mind, but she reappeared a short way down the corridor.

When he is yours, Dark Karigan said, there would be no concerns about honor, no interruptions, no regrets.

That would be nice, Karigan thought, but Estora was his wife and it would never be that easy.

Wives are easily removed.

“No!” Karigan’s exclamation startled a guardsman on his rounds. She pretended to cough and hurried on her way.

Dark Karigan reappeared once more and said, The power is yours to take what you want. Think on it. Think of all that is possible and within reach. You love him, and he loves you. It is not a stretch to make all you wish for come true.

It was, Karigan thought, exactly what she feared, to achieve all she wanted without restraint. She was not her shadow.

LEADING INTO STONE

“So you put your hands against it like this.” Alton demonstrated placing his palms against the granite facade of Tower of the Heavens to see if the wall guardians would allow his brother inside. It was the only way to enter for the select few who could since the towers lacked doors. “And then you just sort of sink in. The sensation is like—”

Marc, who had not seemed to be paying attention, simply walked forward and the wall swallowed him.

“Hey!” Alton cried. The young idiot.

“At least you now know he can enter,” Estral said in her hoarse voice.

It was important to know. Green Riders and Eletians could enter the towers, and one very special minstrel, as well, but no others he knew of except his late cousin Pendric. Until about two hundred years ago, Clan D’yer stationed wall keepers in the towers, so Alton figured there had to be descendants of the keepers among his folk who could enter. More people like Pendric and his little brother. He’d actually tried a number of clan and close family members, but so far, he’d no success.

“Guess so,” he muttered. “Better get in there before he finds trouble. Shall we?”

Estral nodded and he passed through the granite wall. It was a bit like floating in the dark and lasted less time than it took to draw a breath, but in the back of his mind he feared being lost, lost forever in stone, or whatever this magical space was that he traveled through.

Despite his fears, he emerged on the other side into a large round chamber with Estral right behind him. It didn’t smell too bad. The gryphlings had learned to do their business and eat their meals outside. Still, a slightly catty smell lingered.

Estral left his side to join Dale seated at the big table with Mister Whiskers in his orange tabby housecat form sprawled over her lap. Marc sat on the floor petting lanky adolescent gryphlings also in their house cat forms, although the four black gryphlings somewhat resembled panther cubs, taking after their mother, Midnight.

Alton glanced upward to where the gryphon nest was, but Midnight appeared to be absent, probably out hunting for her lazy mate, Mister Whiskers, and their brood.

“Hey,” Alton said to Dale.

“Pick a cat,” she said. “It’s very relaxing.”

“Allergic,” he replied. His eyes were already watering.

“Oops, I forgot.”

Estral, from her place at the table, reached over to pet Mister Whiskers. “Well, I’m not allergic.”

Whiskers purred loudly.

A peaceful expression suffused Estral’s face. She’d been a little pensive of late. When he asked if anything was wrong, she’d told him no, that she was just thinking but wouldn’t tell him what she was thinking about. Perhaps she was depressed about the loss of her ability to understand music preventing her from helping solve the problems of the wall. He certainly could understand as he had times like that. Whatever was on her mind, she’d reveal it when she was ready.

“Where’s Merdigen and Duncan?” Alton asked.

“I dunno,” Dale said. “They weren’t here when I came in.”

They were probably just resting in their tempes stones—the lumps of tourmaline that held their essence—taking a break from one another. They were father and son, and constantly bickered. He could envision both of them retreating to their individual stones in a huff.

Estral attracted one of the gryphlings to her by scratching the tabletop. The one orange kitten who took after his father, named Junior, leaped onto the table and head-bumped her hand.

Alton sneezed. Both Estral and Dale gazed at him in pity.

“So,” he said to his brother, “you had no trouble getting through the wall?”

Marc shrugged. Soot climbed his arm to settle on his shoulder and he grinned.

Alton reined in his aggravation. Had he been like this at Marc’s age? He’d seen little of his brother the last few years and his change from happy youngster to moody preteenager was disconcerting. And he was growing so fast. It was almost like he was a stranger.

“Would you like to see the rest of the tower, or are you going to play with kittens all day?”

Marc gazed at the kittens as if pondering a very important and difficult decision, then asked, “What else is there to see?”

Alton understood Marc’s lack of enthusiasm. The tower looked underwhelming for it was basically a big round room.

“C’mon now, Alton,” Dale said. “He misses his cats in Woodhaven.”

“Marc,” Estral said, “there is more to this tower than meets the eye.”

“Besides,” Dale added, “the gryphlings aren’t going anywhere. They’ll be right here waiting for you.”

Marc nodded and reluctantly rose to his feet. Soot leaped from his shoulder and onto a chair, and twitched his tail. The way Marc looked at Dale, Alton wondered if he had developed a crush on her.

He showed Marc the kitchen and hearth area. Marc fidgeted.

At the stone sink, Alton said, “Here, touch the bird on the spout.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Marc cast him a suspicious look before reaching for the bird. At his touch, water streamed out of its beak. He jumped back in startlement. After a moment the water stopped. Then hesitantly, he touched the bird faucet again and water gushed out.

“How does it do that?” he asked.

“Magic. Winthorpe, who is the mage in Tower of the Summits, created it. The water is very good, too.”

In the background, he could hear Estral and Dale speaking in hushed tones about the Feast of Vendane massacre at the king and queen’s ball. He heard Karigan’s name. It was not clear what had happened to her that night and after, and how she returned, or from where she returned. What was clear was the king’s warning that a powerful wraith was at large, and although he’d his best trackers looking for it, the forces guarding the breach needed to be ready should the wraith make its way to the wall.

Once Marc tired of the faucet, Alton led him toward the center of the chamber which was encircled by fluted columns, though one still lay broken on its side on the floor. In the center, a pedestal held two tempes stones. He had placed thick blankets around its base in case the gryphlings succeeded in knocking the stones off, a very dangerous situation for Merdigen and Duncan.

Above the pedestal hovered a small cloud that contained the green of grass and blue of sky.

The columns marked an area that looked like the rest of the tower chamber until one stepped into the circle, which turned into a vast grassland. Alton indicated to Marc to enter the circle, and when he did, he shrieked and hopped back into the normal chamber. Alton chuckled.

“What the hells?” Marc cried.

“Language,” Alton reminded him.

“You curse all the time.”

“I’m allowed.”

Marc glowered at him. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“It was much more fun to see your reaction.” Alton stepped into the circle. Wind rippled across winter-withered grasses and his breath steamed in the air. A round area of floor remained within the circle, as well as the pedestal with the tempes stones.

Marc tentatively followed him, peering here and there. “Where are we? What is this place?”

“I don’t know, but it’s a lot like the Wanda Plains, though I’m not sure if it’s even in our world, or located in another.”

“Another world?”

“Like another layer to ours. We’ve forgotten so much and it’s like we’re reawakening to the presence of magic.”

He was just guessing. He’d never received a satisfactory answer about the grasslands from Merdigen. Merdigen could travel through it, so perhaps like Merdigen himself, it was a projection. But when Alton bent to snap off some blades of grass growing between the cracks of the flagstone floor, it was all very real. The wind and cold also felt real.

“You haven’t explored it?” Marc said.

“I can’t. If I try to walk beyond the circle, I am back in the tower.”

Marc did what everyone else did when first introduced to the circle—he jumped back and forth between worlds.

“Strange!” he said.

Pleased his brother was taking more of an interest, Alton said, “I have something else to show you.”

He steered Marc away from the circle to the west arch, which led down a short passage to where the D’Yer Wall intersected with the tower. Here he could communicate with the wall guardians as far west as the breach. The guardians were the souls of those who had been sacrificed to remain part of the fabric of the stone and mortar of the wall for all time and gave it its magical strength. Across the chamber from the west arch was the east arch, which likewise allowed him to communicate with the guardians to the east.

He could, of course, lay his hands on any part of the wall outside and receive a reading, but at the intersection he could dive more deeply within and hear their voices more clearly. He could send his consciousness into rock and mortar and alter the song of the guardians if needed, the song that gave the guardians unity and the wall its strength. The first time he had engaged with the guardians, Mornhavon had tricked him into changing the song, its rhythm, so it caused discord and accelerated the deterioration to either side of the breach. The guardians hadn’t liked him much after that, or trusted him, but he’d worked long and hard trying to set things right. They loved Estral, but then she lost her ability to sing and make the music that seemed to enrapture them and promote the healing of cracks and fissures.

Might Marc be the one whom the guardians needed to repair and strengthen the wall? Marc could hear their song without even touching it. Pendric had gone mad because of the voices in his head and he ended up giving his soul to the wall. He had then turned the guardians against Alton.

“You remember what I told you about the guardians,” Alton said, “and their song?”

Marc nodded.

“Right, well, this is where we communicate with them. We’ll send our minds in together. Stick with me, don’t try to do anything. Just observe. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Also, I told you how strange it is . . .”

“I know, I know.”

Marc was going to be a lot of fun to deal with in a year or two.

“All right then, just lay your hands against—”

Marc laid his hands on the granite before Alton could finish his sentence. Silvery runes erupted on the wall. Alton hastily did the same to lead his brother into stone.

TROUBLE AT THE BREACH

Alton’s soul and consciousness sank into stone. Disembodied, he felt nothing of the physical realm. He opened his mind to go deeper into another level of existence, beyond the inert quality of feldspar and quartz and hornblende to where other souls sang of strength and weathering, of peace and restfulness. However, as he drifted among the crystalline structures of granite, an undercurrent of strain marred the chorus. The breach continued to spread hairline fractures in the wall, no matter how he tried to help with the song.

He found Marc’s presence nearby, unmoving, seeming to observe the world around him. The guardians sensed his presence as well and rushed to him, their song growing ever more emphatic, its rhythm increasing like a throbbing pulse. Alton was pleased. Their enthusiasm meant they approved of Marc and accepted him among them. Had they disapproved, they would not have come to him in this manner. They would have turned away. Perhaps he could be the one to repair the breach.

But then Marc was gone. He’d fled. The song sagged as though the guardians let out a great sigh of disappointment. As much as Alton wanted to follow Marc to see what was wrong, he needed to stay for a time and add his voice to the chorus in an attempt to soothe the guardians. They tolerated him, but he could tell they would have preferred his brother.

Slowly he parted from his communion with the wall and returned to his body.

When he strode into the main chamber, he found Dale and Estral still seated at the table chatting. Cats lay on the table or over by the hearth fire. Marc was nowhere in sight.

When Dale spied him, she said, “Marc ran right out. Didn’t want to tell us what was wrong.”

He’d track him down and have a talk with him in a bit. “I think the guardians spooked him. They were drawn to him like a bear to honey.” As anxious as he was to hear what Marc had to say, he thought it wise to give his brother some breathing room to sort himself out. Sending one’s mind into solid rock and hearing the voices of the guardians and feeling something of their presence was, at the very least, unsettling.

“That’s good news, isn’t it?” Estral whispered. “That they came to him?”

“I think so. They were excited to see him. I’m hopeful they can work with him to repair the wall, or at least mend the cracks, but it’s not going to happen if he runs off like that.”

He dropped into a chair beside Estral and idly took her hand and twined his fingers with hers. As much as the guardians’ interest in Marc was a good sign, it was galling to think it was his little brother who might be the one to fix the wall. This after all the effort Alton had poured into it.

“Do you want me to go talk to him?” Dale asked.

Alton considered, then shook his head. “No, I’m going to let him collect himself first; then I’ll go out and talk to him. I want to know what he experienced. Besides, he might be too embarrassed to talk to you.”

Dale paused, playing with Mister Whiskers’ tail. “What do you mean?”

“I think you are his first crush.”

“Huh. He was very sweet back while I recovered from my wounds in Woodhaven a few years ago and spent a lot of time with me. I’m sure it will pass.”

Alton thought Dale was likely correct. He recalled his own first crush on a tutor, but was soon over it as he got older and met girls his own age. Not that Marc was likely to meet many girls his age here at the wall.

Estral squeezed his hand as if to reassure him.

“Well, look here, another gathering.”

Merdigen’s sudden appearances always made Alton jump, especially when he materialized from behind.

“And no one invited me,” Merdigen added.

“Don’t worry,” Dale said, “you weren’t missing much.”

Merdigen fingered his long beard. “I guess I can see that. Cleodheris put on quite a to-do in her tower.”

The great mages had a penchant for throwing parties.

“Is that where Duncan is?” Alton asked.

“Yeeesss. He and Cleodheris have quite the tempestuous history.” Merdigen waved a chair into existence and sat at the table’s corner between Estral and Dale. “Quite emotional, those two, either fighting and having tawdry affairs with others, or all over one another like cats in heat. No offense,” he told Whiskers.

Alton did not think he wished to hear the details of Duncan’s exploits in this regard. Cleodheris, in her Tower of the Clouds, always struck him as serenely above the raucousness of the other mages, and it was quite a revelation to imagine her in so heated a romance with Duncan. He shook his head not wanting to think too deeply about the melodramatic lives of the tower mages, or rather, the projections of tower mages. How did they even—? No, he did not want to know.

“Was Constance there?” he asked. She was the Rider he had assigned to Tower of the Clouds.

“All too briefly, I’m afraid,” Merdigen replied. “Something about a tack cleaning emergency. I can’t imagine how that would be an emergency, can you?”

Alton could. The tower mages could be a little too much when they got together. They argued loudly over equations and philosophy, danced and played music, all of it while “drunk.” It was all so . . . awkward.

“Did you bring your young man to visit the wall guardians?” Merdigen asked.

Alton told him what happened.

“Hmm, I can see them being overly enthusiastic, but he must not be dissuaded by this experience. He may be our last hope for repairing the wall.”

Estral looked down at the table.

“This is not on you, love,” Alton told her. “You know that, right? You are not responsible for Grandmother and Lala stealing your voice and music. It’s on my shoulders. I’m the one who made the guardians mistrustful of me.”

“Oh, bother,” Dale said. “Listen to you, both of you self-sacrificing souls. Mornhavon tricked you, Alton. And it was Shawdell the Eletian who—”

Before Dale could finish, all the cats jumped to their feet and started shrieking. Merdigen disappeared.

“What is it?” Dale asked.

In front of her, Mister Whiskers transformed from a roly-poly tabby cat into a gryphon with a raptor’s head and beak, and the sleek and muscular form of a winged catamount. The gryphlings did likewise.

Alton rose to his feet. “I don’t—”

Merdigen popped back. “Trouble at the breach. That’s all I could get from them.”

He meant the wall guardians. “I should see if I can get any sense out of them,” Alton said.

“Don’t wait,” Merdigen said. “You need to go now.”

Alton jumped to his feet. “Dale, you’re with me. Estral—”

“I want to go,” she whispered.

“No, I need you here to keep an eye on Marc, and to contact Trace. Tell her I’m taking fifty soldiers with me to the breach to find out what the matter is.” Rider Trace Burns, who was stationed at Tower of the Ice, could then relay the information almost instantaneously to the king through her connection with Connly.

Estral nodded, but Dale did not look pleased. Since his return, she’d happily handed her command duties back to him, and spent most of her time in the tower, not wanting to be among others in the encampment. She was still working through her loss of Captain Wallace. Alton was sympathetic, but she still had a duty to perform.

Outside, he was surprised to find darkness had fallen. A soldier ran up to him. “Sir, your brother.”

Alton hastened to Marc’s cabin. He heard his brother screaming before he entered. Inside, Marc sat rocking back and forth on his cot with his ears covered and eyes shut.

Alton shook him. “Marc!”

Marc glanced up at him, his cheeks awash with tears, looking much more the young boy Alton remembered.

“They say it’s a great evil,” Marc said, lower lip trembling. “It’s killing all the people.”

MESSAGES IN FLAME

Alton, Dale, and fifty soldiers rode along the wall in a fury, horse hooves thundering and the flames of torches streaming behind them. Gryphons flew overhead as silent shadows against the night sky. He worried about rushing off without talking to Marc, but Estral would check on him and see if she could draw out what had caused him to leave the tower so abruptly.

Fires burned high and bright at the breach when they rode in. They’d arrived in record time. Alton halted Night Hawk and took in the scene with dismay. The entire population of the encampment was out moving bodies and tending the injured. A phalanx of soldiers stood guard at the breach.

Corporal Manning trotted up to him. “Sir!”

“Corporal? Captain Rennard—”

“It’s sergeant now,” she grimly informed him. “The captain is fine. If you’ll come with me.”

Alton glanced at the sky. The gryphons swept about the area above the breach on patrol. He and Dale dismounted their horses and handed off their reins to soldiers. They had to step around corpses and body parts. Dale turned icy beside him, looking ahead at nothing. Was she reliving the battle with the dark Sleepers in which she lost her beloved?

“Dale,” he said, “are you—?”

“I knew many of these people. I worked with them while you were gone. Many of them were my friends.”

Yes, of course they would have been. She’d spent as much time at the wall as he, if not more, and had been in command while he recovered in Woodhaven. She would have been with them day in and day out.

“I’m sorry.”

She did not reply.

They found Rennard near the dining hall, speaking with officers and underlings, accepting reports and issuing orders.

“Captain,” Alton said. “I’ve brought fifty warriors with me, and the gryphons to patrol the sky.”

Rennard looked up. “Sergeant, see that Lord Alton’s people relieve ours at the breach.”

“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Manning pivoted and ran off.

“What happened?” Alton asked. “Was it the wraith?”

Rennard’s expression was haunted. He gave Dale a dismissive glance before fixing his gaze on Alton.

“You gave us the warning from the king,” he said. “I increased the guard, but it was not sufficient.”

“Clearly,” Dale said bitterly.

“Dale,” Alton said in warning.

“What would you have done?” Rennard demanded of her.

“I would have—”

“Silence,” Alton said. Rennard was in shock, he thought, and Dale bore untold, unexpressed grief and anger. “Captain, tell me exactly what happened.”

Rennard nodded and took a deep breath. “It came just after nightfall, the wraith. a shadow of a shadow. Its presence chilled the blood.” He visibly shuddered. “It was like a corpse awakened from a long sleep, but mightier than any living warrior. When my soldiers attempted to stop it as it strode for the breach to cross into Blackveil, it slew them with its magicked sword. No arrows stopped it and no soldier could seem to land a blow against it. Thirty-three dead. No wounded, for any who engaged it died. It then crawled over the repair work in the breach like a spider and disappeared into the forest. The forest has been . . . roused since then. The king did not exaggerate the peril of the wraith. I am sorry. We could not stop it.”

“Captain Wallace would have,” Dale muttered.

Alton had never seen her so cold.

“I do not think even my esteemed predecessor could have stopped it,” Rennard said. “And I will remind the Rider she is crossing the lines of insubordination.” The last was stated with a hard edge.

“Do you think I care?” she demanded.

“Dale,” Alton said, “enough.”

“Not nearly enough.”

He took her by the elbow and guided her a few steps away. “I know this is hard for you, that everything has been difficult for you since Wallace’s passing, and you are taking it all out on Rennard.”

“I’m not—”

He gently shook her. “Listen to me. You helped me through a difficult time. Now it’s my turn to help you. But right now, I need Rider Littlepage, do you understand? Rider Littlepage who is a king’s messenger.”

She nodded. “But I don’t have to like him.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Rennard. “No, you do not, and I won’t ask you to. I will ask you to set your anger aside for now so we can deal with this situation. Right now I need Rider Littlepage to ride back to the tower and connect with Trace so the king knows what has happened here. Can you do this for me?”

She held herself straight, chin lifted in pride. “Of course. Anything else?”

“Work with the watch sergeant to put extra guards on the tower in case anything comes through.” This last seemed to return the familiar spark to her eyes. “Go now. Not sure when I’ll return.”

She nodded and strode off.

Rennard joined him as he watched after her. “She does not like me very much.”

“I did not like you at first, either,” Alton replied. “She is very loyal to her friends and those she loves, and you should remember she has been here much longer than you.”

“Perhaps too long,” Rennard said.

“Captain,” Alton warned. He wondered, however, if there might be some truth in that.

He ordered one of his men to Tower of the Trees, second tower west of the breach after Tower of the Earth, to inform Rider Garth Bowen of what had happened so he and Mad Leaf—the tower’s resident mage—could then relay word to the western-most tower, Tower of the Sea, where Rider Ylaine Lottwyne was on duty with the great mage Radiscar. Afterward, he took account of the dead. Thirty-three good souls lost to the wraith. Some were youths who should have had many more years ahead of them. The wraith, he understood, had also murdered many people when it invaded the castle on Feast of Vendane. He’d been told that it had come looking for Karigan. Always Karigan, he thought. Why was it always her?

He did not understand how she had evaded such a deadly foe as this wraith when so many others had perished at its hands. Even her swordmaster abilities would not have been enough to stop it, and yet she survived, for which he was profoundly grateful, but he didn’t think he was getting the whole story.

He continued to meet with officers and menders, particularly eyewitnesses who told him the wraith’s blade glowed with an otherworldly gleam, and how it repelled arrows. The wraith had not spoken, nor shown any emotion they could see. It killed any who stood in its way, then crossed the breach.

While Alton made the rounds, the gryphons intercepted two antesheys and chased off a third. A cloud of restless anxiety pervaded the air. The screeches and cries of the beasts of Blackveil were more lively than usual while the despair in the encampment deepened.

He approached the wall where it met the repair work of the breach. The rockwork in the breach was of ordinary inanimate granite. He hadn’t the ability or desire to sacrifice the only magical beings he knew, his fellow Riders, or anyone else, to it so their souls could become guardians. When he placed his palm against the actual wall next to the breach, he sensed the dismay and alarm of the guardians and, worse, the slow fading death of those where the cracks were the most severe. In a concerted attack, not only would the ordinary stonework fail, but so would the surrounding wall, and if he couldn’t convince Marc to repair it and stop the spreading of cracks, even more would crumble.

He hummed to the guardians in hopes of reassuring them, of adding his strength to theirs, while trying to hide from them his burning anger.

“Where’s the ladder?” he asked a soldier when he was done.

“Sir?”

“The ladder. I am a messenger, and I want to send a message.”

The soldier tried to dissuade him, and when he refused the order to fetch the ladder, Alton found it himself. He ordered a different soldier to fetch him a bow, arrows, and rags dripped in fat. When these items were provided, he knotted the rags around the arrowheads.

Sergeant Manning hurried over when she caught wind of his plans. “Sir, I don’t advise climbing up there tonight. The forest is very active.”

“I know. But I am tired of these attacks. We sit here just waiting for the next. A response is required.” As useless as it will be, he thought.

“I’ll go up with you,” she said.

“No.”

“Then I’ll hold a torch for you.”

He nodded. “That would be welcome.”

He hesitated before climbing the ladder. Memories came back of another time he had climbed atop the breach and was pushed off into the forest by an agent of Second Empire. As he began to climb, the wound from which he’d so recently mended began to throb. A flash of memory of the dark Sleeper thrusting its sword into him caused him to pause and gasp.

Breathe, he told himself. Breathe.

“Everything all right, my lord?” Manning asked.

“Fine, fine.” He hastened up the ladder, stepped upon the repair work. The creatures of the forest muted. The forest itself seemed to still as if it watched. Watched with thousands of pairs of eyes. He could see nothing but a sea of mist dimly lit by moonlight as it drifted among the treetops.

A gryphon alighted beside him and surprise nearly cost him his balance.

“Mhirr,” it said, and folded its wings.

“Oh, Bob,” Alton replied, “you gave me a fright.” His galloping heart started to slow to a fast trot.

Bob the bobcat gryphon who, if not as domesticated as Whiskers, stayed near the breach. He was a reassuring presence even if he made Alton’s nose itch. The other gryphons circled above.

“Are you ready, sir?” Manning asked.

“Yes.” He lowered the top of one of the arrows to the torch she carried. The flame caught on the fat-soaked rag with a satisfying whoosh.

Bob’s eyes glowed green in the light.

Alton faced the forest once more and nocked the burning arrow to his bow. “This is for Estral Andovian, the Golden Guardian,” he told the forest, “because those who worshipped you stole her voice and father from her.”

The hush of the forest deepened without even a soft slither or rustle to be heard. It was dead quiet. The only sound was the twang of the bow string propelling the burning arrow through the sky. A streak of light tailed its descent until it was swallowed by the mist. He had no illusions about the arrows doing any damage. No matter how many fire arrows he sent, they would do no harm because Blackveil was too damp, too rotten, to burn. It was, he knew, more about assuaging his own anger, and but a paltry gesture that would barely catch the attention of Mornhavon the Black.

He nocked another arrow spitting with oily flame. “This is for Dale Littlepage and Captain Wallace, and their sundered love. Your dark Sleepers murdered the captain.”

The arrow sailed over the treetops, and faded as it dipped into the vapor. This time there was a distant shriek of something it had hurt or killed.

Lucky shot, he thought.

Of the third arrow, he said, “This is for all those who have perished at the hands of your fell servants.”

It flared like a comet as it ripped into the mist.

He paused over the fourth arrow, then murmured, “This is for Karigan G’ladheon, whom you seek to torment. She will come for you, as will I, and we will have our vengeance. All the people of Sacoridia will stand against you.”

This arrow soared higher and brighter and farther than the others before it descended deep into the forest.

The forest erupted with bestial cries and the treetops shook and rattled. Alton stood defiantly atop the breach with moonlight etching his form against the night.

When finally he climbed back down to the ground, Rennard was there to greet him.

“That was foolish,” the captain said. “You made yourself a target and have stirred them up, and now we must brace ourselves for another attack.”

Alton had delivered his message that he no longer feared the forest, and that Sacoridia would stand against anything Mornhavon threw at them.

“Yes,” he said, “there will be more attacks. Let them come.”

A BOP ON THE NOSE

The howl of wolves carried through the crisp winter night to the warm, golden-lit kitchen of Seven Chimneys where the Berry sisters taught the child, Lala, the joys of warm sipping chocolate and games, neither of which had been present in her previous life with Second Empire, and both of which she had come to enjoy immeasurably. Especially the chocolate.

However, as the howls rang out their lonely descant drawing her attention from their game of Trickits, she kept glancing toward the near window with a sorrowful expression.

“Hah!” Miss Bay cried following the clatter of dice on the tabletop. “I have thrown a seven. Let’s see you beat that, Bunch.”

Miss Bunch paused, noting Lala’s lack of attention to the game. “What is it, child?”

Lala turned back and looked down at the game board. She was, to the minds of the sisters, a precious thing once cleaned up, with ribbons in her hair and wearing a dress. A few calamities with her outside adventures tramping about the estate’s grounds, climbing the pirate ship masts, and roughhousing with Wolfie taught them she needed playclothes. So, with Letitia’s assistance, they had sewn some sturdy boy clothes for such activities. Presently, however, she was in her blue dress with matching ribbons and leggings. She seemed to like her new wardrobe. Life with her grandmother and Second Empire had been lacking in many regards, including her schooling. The sisters made up for it by teaching her to read and write, and do her figures.

“Nothing,” Lala said, but her expression said otherwise.

“I daresay she misses the wolf,” Miss Bay said.

Lala’s downcast expression confirmed her words.

“Child, is this so?” Miss Bunch asked.

Lala nodded.

“But he comes to play with you, does he not?”

“Yes, but not as much.”

Miss Bay tsk-tsked.

“I see,” said Miss Bunch. “He was by your side every moment for months, but now he is not.”

Lala picked up the dice and just held them. “I miss him.” Her eyes glistened with tears.

“Child,” Miss Bunch said, “do you recall the stories of Marin the Gardener we’ve read to you?”

“Yes.” The stories of Marin had been among her favorites.

“Marin is very much about the garden that is our world and its balance—predator and prey, land and sea. Everything has its place in the balance of the world. For Wolfie, that means being true to his nature and consorting with his own kind. Just as you take the society of your fellow humans, he must partake of wolf society.”

“He does not forget you, child,” Miss Bay said, “but he is broadening his circle of acquaintance. He is maturing and must learn the way of his people, just as you are. And yet, he does come to see you often. Do you see?”

Lala nodded, her expression of sorrow easing.

“Good,” Miss Bay said, “because I am on a winning streak. And I do believe we require more chocolate.”

Miss Bay went on to win the game and cackled at her good fortune, with Lala a close second. Miss Bunch came in at a dismal third.

“You should not gloat so, sister,” Miss Bunch said. “It is unseemly.”

“You are just a poor loser,” Miss Bay replied with a sniff.

“Am not.”

“Are, too.”

It occurred to the sisters that perhaps they were not exhibiting the most proper deportment for Lala.

“We are competitive with one another,” Miss Bunch explained to Lala, “but it is friendly competition among sisters. The players of games ought to be courteous whether winning or losing.”

“But shouldn’t Miss Bay be happy she won?”

“Certainly, child, but in a civil realm, a winner should be gracious, not gloating.” She passed Miss Bay a look.

Miss Bay sipped her chocolate as if to conceal a smile.

“The other children didn’t like me to play games with them,” Lala said.

“You mean the other children of Second Empire?” Miss Bunch asked.

“Why?” asked Miss Bay. “You are a perfectly good player of Trickits.”

“They didn’t like me.”

“How could they not? We like you very much.”

“Yes, we do,” Miss Bunch concurred. “We have not had such fun in years.”

Lala rested her chin on her hand and appeared to think hard. “They thought I was strange. I could do things they couldn’t.”

The sisters nodded in understanding.

“You’ve some abilities, yes?” Miss Bunch said.

Lala nodded. “My grandmum taught me to do things with knots. She said I was stronger than she was.”

The sisters exchanged another look.

“It seems to me,” Miss Bay declared, “those children were afraid of something they knew little about. Did you give them reason to be?”

“Well,” Lala said, “after Mattie Hew pushed me into the manure pile and called me names, I tied knots that made him pee tadpoles.”

“Oh, dear,” Miss Bunch said.

Miss Bay’s mug clunked onto the table. “Is that even possible?”

Lala recoiled as if expecting remonstration. “Yes,” she whispered. “He didn’t like it.”

“Well, I imagine—” Miss Bay’s attempt to keep a straight face failed and she snorted with laughter. “I imagine he did not.”

Miss Bunch cleared her throat. “Child, this is likely why the other children feared you, knowing you could wield such power.”

“Grandmum told me never to do it again, and I didn’t. Well, except for the snakes I put in Mistress Walker’s bed, but I didn’t make knots to do that. I found the snakes in a burrow. No one ever figured out it was me.”

Miss Bay clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle a guffaw.

“Bay,” Miss Bunch said, “you are not helping. Child, your grandmama was right to tell you not to do what you did.”

“But it felt good.”

“I am sure it did, but human beings are creatures of discernment and choosing to not hurt another in such a manner is a sign of civility and proper conduct. You could have asked your elders to intervene, and if you received no satisfaction in the matter, bopped the fellow in the nose.”

Lala looked aside as if considering Miss Bunch’s words, then asked, “How is bopping him on the nose different than making him pee tadpoles?”

Miss Bay was so beside herself she could not contribute to the discussion, only dab tears of laughter from her eyes.

Miss Bunch looked askance at her sister and resumed, “It is the difference in the order of magnitude, like using a greatsword to peel an apple when a paring knife would suffice. You’ve a power that few possess, yes?” Lala nodded. “Well,” Miss Bunch continued, “wielding such power makes people suspicious and fearful, especially in this land where magic is largely anathema among the general populace. Believe me, we know. Our dear father was banished from Selium for his interest in studying the arcane arts. Using that great power of yours in such a manner for a situation that could have been resolved by an ordinary bop to the nose was, perhaps, a little extreme, but it also arouses primal fears in others, which in turn stirs up hate. People fear what they do not understand, especially if it means one has power over them. Bopping a nose, on the other hand, is ordinary. That is to say, do not bop the nose if a nonviolent solution presents itself, but do so if it’s the only way to make a point.”

“The boy definitely deserved a bop,” Miss Bay said.

“Yes, so it would appear,” Miss Bunch replied. “Child, do defend yourself in need, but bring out the greatsword only when there is no other course.”

Lala fell quiet, her look one of intense concentration as she considered Miss Bunch’s words. Then she said, “Nyssa didn’t have magic and she hurt people all the time.”

“Where have we heard that name before?” Miss Bay asked her sister.

“The Fiori told us, remember?”

Miss Bay’s mouth rounded into an O. “The torturer.”

“Yes,” Lala said. “I want to be just like her when I grow up.”

“Child,” Miss Bay said, “if we are not mistaken, you have quite a bit of growing up to do and plenty of time to decide on the course of your life.”

“Nyssa had no magic,” Miss Bunch added, “so her opportunities were limited. Yours are not.”

At first Lala looked like she wanted to argue, but then she reconsidered. She sat thinking quietly while the sisters collected the Trickits tiles and put them away.

“What is your course in life?” Lala asked the sisters.

“Why, we inherited everything of our family,” Miss Bunch replied, “and are able to live comfortably here in the country. This is the course we have chosen.”

“And you’ve no husbands? Why?”

“Look who has become so talkative,” Miss Bay said.

“I daresay she has opened up with many questions,” Miss Bunch agreed. “Child, it was not as if we were not courted and pursued.”

“Most ardently,” Miss Bay said. “Do you remember Lord Jeffers?” she asked her sister.

“Memorable for smelling like a dead fish for all his good looks.”

“He did not,” Miss Bay retorted.

“You only say that because he was keen on you. He smelled like an overripe pogie that has been sitting in the sun.”

“You are just jealous.”

“Hardly. I had my own coterie of suitors. They practically smothered me with bouquets and gifts of candy and fine jewelry.”

Miss Bay grumbled under her breath.

“The point is, child,” Miss Bunch told Lala, “despite all our suitors and handsome offers of marriage, we declined.”

“But why?” Lala asked. “Aren’t you sad not to have a husband or children?”

“While marriage is a perfectly fine and rewarding endeavor for those who choose it,” Miss Bay said, “a husband is hardly the end-all of ambition for those who do not. To marry often means consigning one’s life over to the man and giving up much of one’s freedom and identity, and being his second mother, so to speak. Though the members of the species possess many fine attributes, too few are raised to survive in a household in which they must find, on their own, whatever trinket they’ve misplaced. Dear me, but I haven’t the patience for it. I have chosen Seven Chimneys over that life and I have regretted nothing.”

“Nor I,” said Miss Bunch, “though sometimes I wonder what that life would have been like. Perhaps it would not have been as difficult and confining as I imagined. The example of our beloved but absent-minded father may have prejudiced our thinking to a certain degree as he tended to be temperamental and demanding. Sadly, our long-suffering mother’s unceasing efforts to appease him only seemed to intensify his sudden bursts of high dander.”

Miss Bay nodded knowingly.

“To be fair,” Miss Bunch added, “not all situations are like that of our papa and mama. There are many fine husbands out there, not to mention other men who have chosen, like us, to remain unmarried and enjoy perfectly satisfying lives. Maybe I am missing out, but I am happy here. I have my sister, Letitia, Rolph, and Farnham. And now we have you and Wolfie. Not to mention the occasional lost wanderer. We don’t have to do as some man commands, or anyone at all for that matter, and we can choose to have sipping chocolate whenever we want.”

“I would like some more,” Lala said.

Miss Bunch chuckled. “When you come of age, dear, you can choose to have as much as you wish, when you wish it. But now it is time to bathe.”

“All right,” Lala said. She carried the tray of used cups over to the sideboard and walked toward the door to the outer corridor and paused. “Maybe, when I’m old enough, I can still be a torturer, but use my powers to do the job even better.” Then she skipped down the corridor to where the bathing room was located.

Miss Bunch dropped her face into her palm.

“Well,” Miss Bay said tartly, “how is that treating her with kindness strategy of yours working out for you?”

A MESSAGE DELIVERED

A couple weeks after Karigan’s release from the menders, the Eletians finally came to see her. Or, at least six of them did. They found her in the Rider common room.

“Where is Enver?” she asked. “And Byrnin and Shoshan?”

“They left for Eletia after your return,” Telagioth said. “I am sure they wished to say farewell to you, Dama, but you were still in a precarious condition and it was not possible.”

She still experienced lapses of that “precarious condition,” finding herself staring at nothing and then coming back to herself with the vague sensation of having been falling, but thankfully she mostly felt herself. She studied the Eletians before her, their faces lacking imperfection, their eyes glittering. Despite the earnestness of Telagioth’s words, she sensed there was something he was not telling her.

“Is Enver all right?” She thought back to the ball. Recalling his words about her being his illness struck her with the sharp edge of a blade.

“Well enough,” Telagioth said.

Which suggested he was not entirely well, but before she could insist on a more adequate answer, Telagioth continued, “And alas, so must we follow them home to the Great Wood. It is time we took our leave to report to our king. We are satisfied that you are well, and that your king and queen understand and respect your kinship to the House of Santanara.”

“Oh,” she said. She didn’t know why she was so surprised. It wasn’t as if she had expected them to stay indefinitely.

“Fear not,” he replied, “our paths will soon meet again. But before we leave, may we speak for a while?”

Karigan gestured to the chairs around the table in invitation. When everyone was seated, Telagioth said, “Your king has supplied us with details regarding your experiences after your disappearance the night of the ball. Please, can you tell us all you recall after the arrival of the wraith?” When she hesitated, he added, “We are aware of the greater power you serve, and the death of the god-being known as Salvistar.”

Ghost Kitty jumped onto the table and surveyed the Eletians, his tail slowly sweeping back and forth as if judging their worthiness. The Eletians appeared delighted by his appearance.

“These small felines are like gods themselves,” Lhean said with a grin.

“Yes,” Idris agreed. “He is affiliated with the dead, as is our Dama.”

“He was a tomb cat,” Karigan said. Or probably still was, sneaking into the royal tombs in search of rodents and to engage with tomb cat society.

He flopped in front of Cenna and all the Eletians exclaimed in wonder. Cenna did not look like she knew what to do with this grave honor so suddenly thrust upon her.

“He is allowing you to pet him,” Karigan said.

Cenna looked uncertain, but tentatively rubbed his cheek and behind his ears. He purred so loudly it resonated against the tabletop. The Eletians placed their palms on it to absorb the vibration.

“He is so soft,” Cenna said. “He is pleased to be properly venerated.”

Properly venerated, eh? Karigan thought. Apparently, she was falling short in worshipping her little god. That said, his purring comforted her as she told the Eletians of her encounter with the wraith, her memories of falling, and of encountering Shawdell.

The Eletians gasped at the last.

“It cannot be possible,” Lhean said. “He is gone from this world.”

“I thought he was, too,” Karigan said. “I was there in the end with him. I thought I had finished him.”

The Eletians fell silent, then murmured among themselves in Eltish.

“This is dismaying,” Telagioth continued. “You must not be beguiled by him.”

“No worries about that,” she said. “Do you have any ideas about how he survived, in whatever form he has survived in?”

“I do not,” Telagioth replied. “Eternal souls are not always the easiest to banish from existence. You fought him in what you call the white world and perhaps in that place he was able to continue. How, I cannot even begin to apprehend.”

“Wherever I was,” she said, “I lost your sword. Shawdell must have it still. I apologize.”

“It is only a sword, Dama. As long as you have survived, that is all that matters. As for the wraith, we have heard he has crossed into Blackveil at great cost to those who guard the breach.”

Karigan had heard this, as well, and was grateful Alton, Dale, Estral, and all the Riders on duty at the wall had not been involved in the battle.

“As for the rest of your experiences,” Telagioth said, “it is beyond our understanding.”

She stared at him and waited for more. He offered nothing.

“That’s all you are going to say?” she demanded.

“We have nothing to say that would illuminate your experience. We know whom you serve and that his steed was slain by the wraith. Beyond that, we are perplexed.”

Ghost Kitty thumped his tail on the table as if expressing Karigan’s own irritation, but what he wanted was more “veneration” from Cenna.

“So that’s it,” Karigan said.

“It is so,” Telagioth said. “We thank you for recounting your tale. Perhaps the wise among our people will have more insight. But now I must ask if you have any words you wish us to take to the king, your father?”

She had plenty of words for him, but it would not do to unload them on a messenger. She knew how awkward that could be from personal experience.

“Please send him my regards and tell him that I look forward to seeing him.” That was a neutral enough answer, she thought. Telagioth’s cerulean eyes sparked with amusement. At least, she thought it was amusement.

“It is our pleasure to do so.” The Eletians rose from their chairs, startling Ghost Kitty. Cenna gave him one last scritch under his chin. Telagioth then spoke to Karigan in Eltish, followed by, “May the light of Avrath shine upon you and lift you from the dark.”

“You, as well,” she replied.

Now his face broke out in a smile and he bowed, followed by the other five, and abruptly they turned and filed out of the common room. They seemed to take all the light with them, leaving behind an unexpected melancholy at their departure. She’d been adopted into the highest House of the Eletians and had spent more time among them than anyone else, but they remained as mysterious as ever.

Ghost Kitty jumped to the floor and curled up on the hearth rug to absorb the warmth of the fire, and seemingly ignored her existence. Clearly he, too, missed the Eletians, especially Cenna.

She stood and resolved to shake off any and all mysteries that plagued her life and do something solid and real. She decided to visit Condor.

• • •

Karigan stepped out of the icy wind into Rider stables. She’d been trying to work her way back into her normal routine, and here at stables it was all very grounding with the sounds of content horses chewing on grain or drowsing. A few greeted her with nickers and she paused to pat them.

She spotted Darys in the aisle gazing at the floor. As she approached, he bent down to pick up a floppy red object.

“Hey, Dare,” she said, using the nickname Anna had given him. “What have you got there?”

His face paled and he trembled a bit when he looked at her. “My cap.” He held it pinched between his fingertips as though it were something disreputable. “It was here in the middle of the floor.”

“You’ll need it tonight,” she said. “It’s bitter out.”

“Aye,” he said. He turned and walked away holding the cap at arm’s length.

She did not understand his behavior. The cap had looked ordinary and not at all grungy for having lain on the floor. Nor did it look dangerous. An enchantment, perhaps, by evil cap mages? Condor nickered loudly for attention, and she put Darys and his cap out of her mind.

When she reached him, she threw her arms around his neck. So warm with his winter coat. He lipped at her pocket.

“All right, all right,” she said. “Don’t tell anyone . . .” She pulled out a peppermint candy, which he ground up with his teeth. When he was done, he nudged her for more. “Don’t get greedy now.” But how could she resist giving him the other in her pocket?

Afterward she stroked his neck and nose. His eyelids slowly closed. His peacefulness in turn eased all her cares. This was real, his breath, the whiskers about his nose and chin, the scents of hay and horse. Everything she’d been through when she’d been falling through the heavens seemed far off, dreamlike.

Until the sensation of . . . Not so much as falling, but of shifting, the floor slipping beneath her feet and everything a blur around her. She grabbed the stall door to anchor herself, heart hammering in her chest.

“You know,” she told Condor, “F’ryan told me to—”

When the movement and blurring settled, she found herself standing in the very same spot in Rider stables and holding onto the stall door, but the scene before her had changed.

Garlands of spring flowers festooned the rafters and stalls. The horses wore ribbons in their manes, and F’ryan and Estora danced in the aisle, carefree and laughing. They swept about in the glow of lantern light with the horses and Riders watching on. It was just as F’ryan had described to her, the ball the Riders had thrown for him and Estora.

I forgot, she thought in consternation.

Simple pipe, drum, and fiddle served as their orchestra playing a simple waltz.

One-two-three, one-two-three

She stood as an observer, but was unobserved. No one seemed to see her, not even the horses. F’ryan and Estora gazed at one another, the love between them obvious, almost like a light encapsulating them. In that moment, they would not have known F’ryan’s life would be cut so short. They would have been more than aware, however, that politics and the games of power would never allow them to be together. Karigan could relate.

However, in this one blissful moment as they danced, all they knew was one another and their love.

One-two-three, one-two-three

The rhythm of the waltz forced itself into her mind. No, not again. She gripped the top of the stall door so hard her knuckles turned white.

One-two-three, one-two—

Once more the scene swept away and the floor shifted beneath her feet. If she hadn’t been holding the stall door, she would have fallen. A moment of vertigo, and then everything righted itself and it was just her and Condor again, and the other horses, of course.

She patted Condor once more to feel the realness of him, to keep grounded and her mind in the present.

“I forgot about F’ryan’s message for Estora,” she told Condor. “I’d better give it to her.”

It was not the sort of message you relayed in a note, so when she returned to the castle, she sent a Green Foot runner with a request for a private audience. Connly probably wouldn’t approve. A common messenger didn’t just request anything from the queen without going through proper channels, but then again, she was not just a common messenger but supposedly a member of the Eletian royal family. Still, she didn’t expect to hear back from Estora any time soon.

She returned to her chamber to wash up. There was not much else to do for Daro had taken over the Rider accounts while she was gone, and Mara had kept her on light duty. She threw herself on her bed, wondering how to spend the last of her evening hours.

To her surprise, the runner knocked on her door a short time later.

That was quick.

“The queen says you will find her in the conservatory,” the boy said.

Very quick.

Karigan grabbed a longcoat from her wardrobe. It happened to be the one the Eletians had made for her. She wasted no time and set off. When she passed the ballroom doors to reach the conservatory, she picked up her pace until she was well away from them. She needed no reminders of the Feast of Vendane massacre.

At the entrance of the conservatory, she was greeted with wafting harp music. A pair of Weapons she did not know well stood to either side of the doors as statuelike as any of their brethren. Lionel and Piers, she recalled.

“Good evening,” she said. “The queen is expecting me.”

“Good evening, Sir Karigan,” Lionel said. “You may enter.”

She stepped across the threshold and a large ornate room opened up around her. She’d never had reason to visit the conservatory before and was now dazzled by the formal finishes and gleaming chandeliers.

About a dozen ladies, finely gowned and coiffed, either sat playing cards at a table or working on embroidery near a hearth fire. Another lady strummed and plucked the harp situated on a dais. Karigan recognized a few of them from the ball. One wore the dark colors of mourning.

An attendant in the queen’s livery stepped forward, bowed slightly, but seemed to look down his nose at her for all she was taller than he. “Have you a card, my lady?”

Ah, he wished to announce her, and because she wore her special longcoat, he must mistake her as a guest.

“No,” she replied. “I am here on Green Rider business.” It was, in its way, true. “The queen is expecting me. I am Rider G’ladheon.”

“Very well. Remain here.”

Officious little man, she thought.

He approached Estora who sat at an embroidery frame and whispered to her. She looked up and nodded, said a few words to those nearby before motioning Karigan to enter. They met midway, curious and aristocratic gazes following them.

Karigan bowed. “Your Majesty, thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“There is a small parlor this way.” Estora gestured to a side door and entered the chamber. It was as sumptuously appointed as the conservatory, but of much smaller scale, and thus cozy in its way.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your evening,” Karigan said. “The harp playing is beautiful.”

They sat across from one another on silk upholstered sofas.

“Lady Dannela,” Estora said. “Yes, it is beautiful, but if you’ve heard her play on many such occasions, I believe you would find her repertoire rather limited.”

“Oh,” Karigan said.

“Indeed. I welcome your visit as a respite. These evenings doing embroidery and having to engage in inane chitchat also grow wearying, but it is a form of statecraft, albeit an underappreciated form. It is a queen’s obligation to partake of the society of the wives and daughters of the powerful. There is an abundance of gossip, much of it meaningless, but if you listen carefully, some interesting bits come up that are worthy of sharing with Zachary.”

“I never thought of it like that,” Karigan replied. “You’re like a spy.” She clamped her mouth shut realizing it was an impertinent thing to say to her queen even if they were friends, but Estora gave a soft laugh.

“It is,” she said, “a matter of honing one’s skills of observation.” She then gave Karigan a good look. “You are doing well? Zachary said his recent conversation with you was interrupted by a very sick dog.”

Karigan froze. Did Estora mean more than a conversation? Did she know?

She cleared her throat. Her mouth had gone dry. “It was, uh, unpleasant.”

Amusement lit Estora’s eyes. “I believe the word Zachary used was vile.”

Karigan nodded emphatically. Just thinking about it was enough to turn her stomach. “I hope Finder is feeling better.”

“He is. Rider Harding put him to rights. You know how dogs are, always getting into things they should not. But we are not here to discuss dogs. You wished for a private audience and I must admit to being curious. This is the first time you’ve requested one, is it not?”

Now that it came to it, Karigan hesitated. Speaking of having encountered one’s dead lover could invite a host of emotional reactions she wasn’t sure she was ready to face, but then she recalled her training as a messenger on how to remain stoic when delivering a difficult message. And yet, Estora was a friend, and this was not a typical message.

“Today,” she began, “I remembered something about my time away.” Time away was quite a euphemism for being sucked into the heavens by the death of a god-being and falling through the stars. “You recall my ability to sometimes be in contact with spirits of the dead?”

“Yes.” Estora’s head was cocked as though she wondered where this was going.

Karigan told her about seeing F’ryan and hearing the story about the ball in Rider stables. Then she gave Estora his message.

Estora placed her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes. She did not weep as Karigan expected, but she trembled, and after a while she looked up with glistening eyes.

“I cannot express what this means to me, that he should remember me as though he were still here, and that he awaits me when it is my time. I cannot find the words, except that how can I fear death knowing he is there waiting for me?”

She stood, so Karigan stood. Then she threw her arms around Karigan. “Thank you. Thank you so much, my friend, for bringing his words to me.”

Karigan awkwardly patted her back. “Um, glad I could.”

Estora stepped back and dabbed a stray tear with a handkerchief. “Tears of happiness, I assure you. My heart is so light. But now will you return to the conservatory with me so that I may introduce you to the ladies?”

Oh, gods no, Karigan thought. The very idea mortified her. “I’m afraid I am expected elsewhere,” she lied.

“A pity, considering your Eletian status. It is to your advantage to know these people, but I understand you have duties, as well.”

Oh, thank the gods. She suspected, however, Estora would find other opportunities for her to meet the ladies.

Before they left the parlor, Estora turned back to Karigan. “I shall never forget the message you have brought me through perils unknown.” And then she added, “I will inform Zachary you asked after Finder.”

Was there laughter in her words? Karigan didn’t know what to say. Estora turned with the skirts of her gown flaring round her and the hint of a smile. F’ryan’s message had clearly put her in a buoyant mood.

Karigan followed her into the conservatory and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

Estora nodded. “Lady Winterlight, you honor me.” It was said loud enough to be heard over the harp music. While “Rider G’ladheon” would have sufficed, and so would have not making a point of it, Estora clearly wanted her ladies to mark that she wasn’t merely a messenger, but one held in great esteem by their queen.

And, oh, how they marked her. She felt every pair of eyes rake over her as she strode from the conservatory. Her mind, however, was more on Estora’s comment about Finder and her flash of a smile. Did she know more about that meeting than she was letting on, or was it just her happiness over F’ryan’s message? Well, Karigan certainly wasn’t about to ask, but she knew it would gnaw at her all night. After all, it was one thing to be granted permission by a wife to be with her husband, and quite another to act on it.

BUSINESS AND FAMILY

Karigan gazed wearily across her desk covered in ledgers at Robert, who had begun to fill her in on everything that had transpired during her absence. A tiny, frosted window allowed daylight into the shabby office that had once been a cobbler’s shop located in a safe and respectable, but lower-class neighborhood in the middle city. Robert had done his best to make it presentable by thriftfully purchasing furnishings that had once been fine but were, perhaps, out of fashion and showed some wear. He had repaired a few of the pieces himself, and the outfitting of the office was adequate, if not that of a highly successful merchant.

As Robert listed clients lost and debts owed, she began to wonder if they’d be able to hold onto even this office.

“They may never do business with us again,” she murmured, her head throbbing.

“That is so,” he said, “but once we are again on solid footing we may be able to find new suppliers and customers. Most of our suppliers have been quite patient and understand the situation.”

“Their patience is not infinite, especially since they, too, suffered from the shortages and shipping issues in the war with Second Empire,” she said. “We are very overdue on certain payments. They may come for us legally or otherwise, and we need to satisfy them as soon as possible.”

“I understand,” Robert replied. “We are bare bones on expenses. I don’t see any way we could save more.”

It was the same conclusion she had come to after an entire night and morning scouring the books. They’d almost nothing left to sell off, except her father’s horses, the G’ladheon estate, her father’s investments, and the essentials of the business.

“We need to sell off my father’s investments,” she said. “Or at least some of them.” This was a last gasp attempt to bring in some capital. He had invested in shipping and a range of smaller businesses and projects. “Maybe now that shipping is returning to normal we will even gain some profit.”

“Very well,” Robert said. “I will review his papers and see what looks likely. I think it would be wise to keep a few that may offer more profit if we sit on them for a while. I will see that we don’t scrape the barrel’s bottom.” He paused, deep in thought, tapping his forefinger on the desktop. “We should gain enough income to retain the clan and begin the process of rebuilding the business. And there is always the chance that this trading mission of your father’s has been successful.”

If only the trading mission had been about trade. “We should probably sell most of my father’s horses. It’s not like he’s around to ride them.”

“Just his saddle horses?”

“Selling the drays would mean not being able to move merchandise come spring.” Not that they had merchandise to move. “Saddle horses,” she told him. “They are all of excellent lineages. Let’s hold onto Aspen for now, though. I’m finding him useful, and he is my father’s favorite.” Indeed, in her ongoing effort to maintain separation between merchant and messenger to avoid the appearance of a conflict of interest, it was more appropriate to use Aspen for clan business rather than Condor, a messenger horse of the realm. “We sell the drays as a last resort, but perhaps, in the meantime, we can lease a few of them and our caravan wagons.”

“Good thinking.” Robert scratched down her instructions in his notes. “As for your father’s contributions to certain charities?”

She’d pondered over what to do about that. Among the charities he contributed to, he maintained a home in Corsa called Garden House for women and children who had found themselves in intolerable circumstances. If the clan stopped supporting them, they would swiftly go broke, leaving the beneficiaries in the lurch. This was unacceptable, especially when it came to Garden House, which was the only lifeline available to many of the residents.

“Let me think on it.” Her personal income as a Green Rider was of little help, and all she earned was already going to her aunts.

Robert nodded.

“What else?” she asked. She just wanted to rest her head on the desk.

“I have heard your grandfather is in the city and is looking for you,” he replied, “but not why. Apparently he’s been pretty closed-mouth about his intentions. He is staying at Hillsdon Inn. Would you like me to set up a meeting?”

“No. I’ve no wish to meet him.” She was still curious, but not curious enough. “Do you have any good news?”

He winced. “I’m afraid not. The guild masters wish to see you at your earliest convenience. I’ve told them you’ve been ill. And one last thing.” He pulled a sealed envelope from the inner pocket of his longcoat and passed it to her. “Post rider brought it about a week ago.”

She inspected the seal, but it held no special markings. It was addressed to her at their previous place of business.

“I’ve been checking the old office for deliveries and such,” he explained.

She broke the seal and opened the letter. She smiled as she read. “Finally, some good news. Our agents have located Lucas Croft in Rivertown.” Croft was the accountant who had made off with a good portion of the G’ladheon financial holdings.

“That is excellent news.” Robert replied.

“Yes.” She read further and laughed. “Croft’s been spending lavishly at a particular inn of my acquaintance. The owner is a friend of my father’s and her employees tipped off our agents. They have been instrumental in obtaining information from him.”

“That is fortuitous,” Robert said.

Karigan had long ago gotten over her father’s attachment to the Golden Rudder, a high class brothel. She did not know the exact history of his relationship with the madam, Silva Early, except that she had helped him in some way when he was just starting out as a merchant. Together they operated Garden House, and thinking of Silva put Karigan in the mind to drop her a letter informing her of the bind the clan was in, in regards to funding the House. Karigan would also pass on her thanks to Silva for continuing to look after Stevic G’ladheon’s interests in the case of Lucas Croft.

“If their plan to extract Croft went as expected,” she said, “then they’re already on their way here. The journey will take a while even if the weather holds, but it’ll be very satisfying to get my hands on that man.”

Later, after she had written her letter to Silva and pored over the ledgers to no avail, she rubbed her temples and decided it was time to return to the castle. She could do no more here and attempting to work on it was like a bird repeatedly flinging itself at a window.

She folded her arms on her desk and rested her head on them. Numbers and debts and ledgers, among other problems, swirled in her mind, and she wished she could think about pleasanter subjects like horses, or her father bringing Colonel Mapstone home alive and well. Spending time with Zachary without a dog present was certainly a . . . Well, a wistful longing, but a complicated situation, which made it not entirely a happy topic.

A busy mind working through a maelstrom of problems was not necessarily a bad thing. Ever since her tumble through the stars, the dark of the heavens leached into the quiet spaces between her thoughts as if she had not entirely returned. Even ordinary activities like riding Condor, eating dinner with her friends, and calculating numbers did not dispel the feeling. Always the heavens lingered on the edge of awareness.

She yawned, her eyelids drooping and her vision blurring. Two objects gleamed in the dull light on her desk.

That’s odd.

She couldn’t seem to lift her head or move, and she felt caught in the finespun threads of dreaming, or, perhaps, a spell.

The two objects resolved into glass game pieces from Intrigue, and in some part of her consciousness she recalled seeing something like this before. She thought she ought to be alarmed, but could not wake.

Only a dream.

One game piece was of an archer, smoky gray in color, the other a green king. Her vision closed in on them, and it was like she shrank to their size and stood between them. The features of the king looked familiar. Too familiar.

The archer drew his bow, aimed it at the king.

She wanted to scream, move to shield him, but she could do nothing.

The archer loosed his arrow and it flew at the king. Just before it hit, she jerked to a sitting position and blinked rapidly. It took a few moments for her to remember where she was. Her back, stiff from sitting so long in a room inadequately warmed by a small brazier that only seemed to pollute the air with smoke, further returned her to the present. How long had her mind been wandering? But then she spotted the two game pieces on the edge of her desk, the king in the dead position. She reached for them, but they evaporated in a sparkling green cloud.

“Shawdell,” she muttered.

His voice came to her then. “You thought we were finished? No, there will come a time . . .”

Fully awake now with no evidence the game pieces had ever existed, she knew this had been no dream, no matter how it had felt. There would not, she thought, “come a time” if she could help it. Shawdell might like to play games, but—

Raised voices drew her attention to the outer office. One definitely belonged to Robert. She set aside Shawdell and his little games and grabbed her staff, extended to full length. The neighborhood might not be dangerous, but it made her feel better to have it with her.

When she stepped into the outer office, she found Robert scuffling with a red-faced older man.

“Is there a problem?” she demanded.

They paused and she made sure their visitor saw her staff.

“Aye, there’s a problem,” the older man said. “This idiot won’t let me in to see you, granddaughter.”

The end of her staff thumped to the floor. “You will not abuse my secretary in words or action.”

“Now you listen here—”

“No.”

The look he gave her indicated few stood up to him. She took in his seamed and ruddy features, the snapping eyes that were so like her father’s. He was tall, but stooped, most likely from his lifelong occupation hauling nets and traps from the ocean. He was missing a thumb on his left hand. It was dangerous work, fishing, and it was etched into his face.

She said, “Robert knows I have no wish to see you and he was obeying my orders. He is acting on my behalf.”

Sutton G’ladheon sized her up in return. She’d worn her gray longcoat and breeches. But mostly his gaze rested on her face with its eyepatch.

“Edwin Turval was right,” he said. “You’ve the look of the Grays on you, but I see the G’ladheon, too.”

“Madam, do you wish me to—” Robert began.

“You may stay, Robert. Master G’ladheon was just leaving.”

“Just like that?” Sutton said. “I came a long way to see you. I keep getting turned away.”

And couldn’t take a hint. She said, “For good reason considering the rift in our family. I assume you intend to take me back to Black Island to marry Vernas Turval. Let me say right now, that would end very badly.” She shifted her staff to ensure he understood. “Not to mention my service to the king would not permit such a thing.”

“Hmph. Heard you laid out Edwin’s crew real good. I’d’ve paid to see it. No, girl, I’m not here to drag you off to Black Island to marry that fool, Vernas.”

“Well, what a relief.” She could not hide the sarcasm in her voice.

“No Turval is good enough for a G’ladheon.”

“Then why did you make a marriage contract with them?”

Robert stood uneasily off to the side, watching them, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Back then, I was younger and ambitious,” Sutton said. “Edwin and I wanted a fishing empire.” He laughed. “I forgot about it to be honest, and the Turvals have since proven themselves . . . wanting.”

“They will be facing king’s law for attempting to abduct me and ignoring the king’s own command.”

“Will they now . . .”

The two of them fell silent, staring at one another.

“Er, perhaps I’ll make some tea,” Robert said, and he moved to the small stove that made his office warmer than her own, and started fussing with a pitcher of water and a kettle.

“I came here to warn you about the Turvals,” Sutton said, “but I got delayed in Corsa, so they got to you first. And then the weather got bad, but at least I saw Edwin at Corsa Harbor in an awful hurry to reach his boat.” His laugh grated like rust.

“If you had no reason to come,” Karigan said, “then why are you here?”

“I can’t come to see my own granddaughter?”

“You never have before.”

“Oh, I tried, but your father and aunts wouldn’t let me near you.”

She hadn’t known this, but was not surprised. “Might have something to do with how you treated them.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “If you are looking for apologies for things that happened before your birth, you will be disappointed. I did what I did. Fishing is no easy way of life and I had to push ’em. We don’t . . .” His gaze tracked around the office. “We don’t sit inside counting coinage. Though I have to say, this is lacking compared to what I’ve heard of your father’s wealth over the years, but your aunts have told me a thing or two about your problems.”

She started. “You saw them?”

“I did. That’s what delayed me in Corsa. They did not welcome me at first, but in the end, they asked me to deliver a letter to you, a letter delivered by family. That’s what I’m here for, to let you know that Stace is gone. Her condition took a turn and she passed away on Feast of Vendane.”

THE FALL OF CLAN G’LADHEON

Karigan’s staff clattered to the floor. She backed away. “What? What did you say?”

“I’m sorry, girl, to be the one to tell you,” Sutton G’ladheon said.

“It—it can’t be true. She was doing so much better.”

“It’s true enough,” he replied. “Her heart was weak from her earlier illness. It gave out. Here is the letter Brini wrote you.” He extended a paper to her pressed with the G’ladheon seal.

She took the letter with a trembling hand. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Aunt Brini explained within how Aunt Stace’s heart gave out, how she’d spent the evening before baking muffins and laughing with her sisters over a game of Knights.

For the most part, Aunt Brini wrote, we were able to insulate her from the clan’s financial difficulties to keep her as untroubled as possible. She had a happy life and loved you very much. In the end she did not suffer and transitioned peacefully in her sleep.

Aunt Brini went on to say they’d have a full ceremony in the spring for clan members and friends. Aunt Stace’s body would be stored in the icehouse, Karigan knew, until the ground thawed. She’d be interred in the family plot.

Her tears smudged the letter’s ink and she looked up unseeing and numb. She thumped into a chair Robert must have moved to receive her. Aunt Stace, eldest sister to her father and other aunts, the mother who stepped in when Kariny had died. Sometimes stern, but always fair, she was not only Karigan’s foundation, but the heart of the family.

“I can’t believe it.” Her body quaked with sobs she tried to choke back.

Robert placed his hand on her shoulder. Sutton just stood there shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking very uncomfortable.

“I should leave, I guess,” he said.

Karigan did not stop him. As far as she was concerned, they might share blood, but he was estranged from her family, and a stranger.

She returned back into her own office, swallowing back tears. An image returned to her of Aunt Stace standing in the field of the G’ladheon estate. Kari, she had said, be careful, you could poke out an eye. And then she had made Karigan promise to be careful. This brought on a new freshet of tears.

“Damn the gods,” she said. “Damn Westrion.” How could he do this to her when she had risked so much as his avatar? How could he take Aunt Stace from her? Was this his repayment? “WHY!” she cried, but she was answered only by silence. An icy darkness spread through her.

“Madam?” Robert stood hesitantly in the doorway.

She grabbed her gloves off her desk. “I’m leaving for the rest of the day.”

“That is probably wise. Where—?”

She swept past him and stepped out into the cold.

• • •

Karigan left Aspen tethered to the hitching post in front of the guild house and ran up the steps, darkness clinging to her like a haze. She embraced it, embraced it and the bitter cold that accompanied it. She itched for a confrontation. Itched to take action in her helplessness. Itched to quench her grief in rage. A part of her noted she was not behaving rationally. She did not care. Her shadow self urged her on.

She carried her staff at walking cane length. No one would know it was anything more. She was not attired in her fancy gown to show off her nonexistent fortune, and she didn’t care.

She did show her clan ring to the doorman and he let her in without question. She strode across the marble atrium, her footsteps echoing in the hard empty space.

Another doorman at the entryway to the triumvirate’s chamber halted her and gazed at her askance, not recognizing her in such unadorned garb.

She showed him her ring. “I am Sub-chief Karigan G’ladheon of Clan G’ladheon.” Somehow, she managed to speak without a quavering voice.

“Ah,” he said. “You’ve been on the list for weeks, and you’re just in time. They are about to break for the day.”

He let her into the chamber, which boasted deep red pile carpets and statues and portraits of past guild masters and leading members as though they were great heroes of the realm. Few merchants lingered within chatting among themselves in the audience section of the chamber. The guild masters sat at the high desk upon a dais, which forced all who came before them to crane their necks. All three were present and engaged in seemingly casual conversation. One of them was—

Celesta Suttley! The horror of that realization almost overcame the darkness Karigan had wrapped herself in. How in the world had Celesta become a guild master? Bribes, Karigan thought. Bribes, lies, and political maneuvers to push her opponents out of the way. As her surprise ebbed, the realization of what this meant for her clan sank in. Cold rage wrapped her in yet another layer of darkness.

Six footmen who were actually lightly armed guards stood at attention along the walls. She gauged their readiness. Each was armed with a truncheon. Most appeared bored and half asleep. At least two looked like they couldn’t ascend a flight of stairs much less win a fight.

Kari, be careful. You could poke out an eye.

She snarled back a sob and strode up to the dais and waited to be acknowledged.

“Well, well,” Celesta said. “Clan G’ladheon has finally deigned to answer our summons.”

“Sub-chief,” said Master Cleaven, who sat in the center, “we’ve been expecting you for weeks.”

“I was indisposed.” Ice rimed her words.

“Any news of your father’s return?” Master Highlake, the third member of the triumvirate, asked.

“No,” she said, without even a “Your Grace.” Some merchants liked to fashion themselves as a sort of noble class. Her clipped answers were blatantly discourteous. “Any business you have with Clan G’ladheon must come through me as before.” She turned her attention to Celesta. All three guild masters wore extravagant fur capes and gold chains of office. “That chain looks heavy around your neck, Celesta,” she said. “Clan Suttley’s fortunes have changed.”

“Yes,” Celesta said with a smile that was no smile. “Master Higgins fell down a flight of stairs to his death and needed to be replaced. The guild’s body found me a superior candidate than all others and I was voted in.”

Karigan wondered about Master Higgins’ fall. “That is unfortunate.” She did not clarify which of Celesta’s statements she found “unfortunate.”

“To be voted in as a member of the governing body of the guild,” Celesta continued, “is an honor I could only dream of. Such a position offers many benefits of which you will never know. And fortunately, the rumors you threw at me about banning Suttley tobacco last time we met were malicious and completely false.”

“I doubt it,” Karigan muttered, recalling their confrontation on the guild house steps the same day the Turvals had attempted to abduct her.

“Sub-chief,” Master Cleaven said, “your comportment leaves much to be desired.”

Celesta motioned an attendant to her side and whispered into his ear. He trotted from the chamber on some errand.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Karigan said, “that you find my comportment lacking, but if I am guessing right, it little matters at this point.”

Master Cleaven glowered at her. “Your attitude does not serve your clan well, nor does it alleviate the burden of your present circumstances.”

Karigan shrugged, the cold darkness making her reckless.

Moments later, the attendant Celesta had sent away returned bearing a parchment and passed it to her.

“We have been quite displeased by Clan G’ladheon’s inability to pay its annual tithe to the guild,” Master Cleaven said, “and I understand our fellow guild houses in other districts feel likewise. Clan G’ladheon has further dishonored us by leaving its debts uncompensated, which does not speak well of the guild as a whole. It is a taint upon all members that diminishes the trust and respect of the populace that seeks to conduct business with us.” He shook his head. “Clan G’ladheon has fallen hard from its once grand perch.”

His sorrowful expression was not at all genuine. He, and many others, and especially Celesta, were likely celebrating the “fall” of Clan G’ladheon. Greed and envy were in plentiful supply in the merchants guild.

Celesta held up the parchment. “This is Clan G’ladheon’s certification in the Sacor City District of the Merchants Guild.” She grinned, then tore it in half. “I have it on good authority our fellow districts will do the same. You’ll be pushing a hand cart in the poorest neighborhoods to sell your trinkets.”

It was no insult. It was how her father had gotten started, and he built it into a successful organization. They might no longer push hand carts, but river cogs, ships, and wagons now carried their goods to far distant lands.

“Is that all?” she asked in a dangerously soft voice.

Celesta leaned forward over the desk. “No. We are going to formally petition the clan chartering commission to dissolve your clanship.” She held up a second document. “They will examine your clan’s many failures.”

“You can’t do that,” Karigan said. The first blow she had expected. The second she had not. “Queen Isen herself signed our charter.”

“Oh, we absolutely can, and we will.”

The other two masters nodded in agreement. Dissolving the clan . . . It would mean everything her father had ever accomplished would be washed away, and all his connections and support would shun them.

Not on my watch, she thought. Not when she had just heard Aunt Stace had died, she who had been integral to helping build the clan, all the sacrifices she and her sisters had made to support their brother.

The dark draped Karigan like a cloak. Without a second thought, she bounded up onto the dais and knocked Celesta’s hand onto the desk with the bonewood and trapped it there beneath the metal handle. Celesta screamed in surprise, and Karigan snatched the document. She tore it to pieces as Cleaven attempted to soothe Celesta.

“Sub-chief!” Master Highlake said. “This is beyond unacceptable.”

Celesta cradled her hand to her chest. “You will answer for this, G’ladheon.”

“Indeed,” Cleaven said. “Not only will we write up a new document, but you will be escorted to the constabulary for this assault. And,” he added, “we will ensure any and all charges lock you away.”

“You would jail one of the king’s own messengers?” she demanded.

“I believe,” Celesta replied, “even the king’s own messengers are bound by king’s law.”

In other words, Karigan thought, the constabulary would be bribed to do as the guild masters wished. She glanced about and saw that the attendants were closing in around her. The confrontation she had been itching for was coming to pass.

She glanced once more at Celesta. “Your time will come.”

Celesta must have heard the danger in Karigan’s voice for fear flickered across her features. She stared at Karigan as if she didn’t recognize her.

Karigan whipped around, extending her cane to a staff even as she swept it toward the first attendant. The dark pumped through her veins and overtook her.

LETITIA

Morning light glowed through the kitchen windows of Seven Chimneys with a warmth any house cat would appreciate, though it was still winter cold outside. Even better for one’s old bones, Miss Bay reflected when she arrived for breakfast, was the heat emanating from the big stove.

She took in Lala sitting at the table, legs swinging as she stuffed a muffin into her mouth. From the looks of the crumbs on her plate, it was not the first. Letitia bustled about the kitchen, took more muffins from the oven and replaced them with a round of bread dough within. Miss Bay was about to sit beside Lala when she perceived an oddness to the scene.

Letitia? she asked herself. And then aloud, “Letitia?”

Letitia held the pan of freshly baked muffins in her mitted hands and was about to set them on a cooling rack. She was attired in nothing but an apron and a smattering of stray flour.

As it was akin to meeting a ghost in one’s own kitchen, Miss Bay squawked and flailed in surprise. Her cane flew from her hand and struck several hanging pots and pans with a bing-bang-bong.

Letitia, in turn, screamed and flung her pan into the air. Steaming muffins ejected from it in a graceful arc and pelted the floor.

An overcome Miss Bay fell into a chair.

“Mistress?” Letitia hurried, rolls of flesh jiggling, over to where Miss Bay sat. “Mistress? Can you see me? Can you truly see me?”

Miss Bay cracked open one eye, and then the other, and replied, “I can see rather too much of you.”

Lala giggled.

Letitia slapped her arms and ample buttocks. “Oh, my goodness. I mean, the kitchen gets so hot and no one can see me, so . . . Are you hurt?”

“Only my eyes.”

Miss Bay had no sooner spoken when Miss Bunch burst into the kitchen attired in her nightgown, housecoat, and sleeping cap.

“What is all this racket?” she demanded. “I was not ready to get up. What—Letitia? Is it really you?”

“Yes, Miss Bunch. I mean if you can see and hear me.”

Miss Bunch screamed in delayed reaction, but it was more a scream of gladness. She threw her arms around Letitia and hugged her hard. “How can this be after so many years?”

“I don’t know,” Letitia said. “I didn’t even realize it until Miss Bay came in.”

Miss Bay gave Lala a sidelong look. “I am guessing I know how.”

Lala smiled a little smile and popped the last bit of her muffin into her mouth.

After more exclamations of joy from Miss Bunch, Letitia put a kettle on and hurried to her room to dress properly.

“She is remarkably unchanged,” Miss Bunch said.

“A little plumper, if you ask me,” Miss Bay replied.

“How did you do it, child?” Miss Bunch asked Lala. “How did you break the spell?”

“I wondered why the servants were invisible,” Lala said, “because the spell was easy to unravel.”

The sisters exchanged looks.

“We’ve researched for years and years to figure out how to remove that spell,” Miss Bunch said, “but could not find the remedy. Obviously, our father could not either, after he accidentally cast it, and he had such a good grasp of magic.”

Lala shrugged. “I could just see in my head how it was made, so I unmade it.”

Miss Bunch thumped into a chair across from the girl and her sister. “Farnham and Rolph?”

“They should be visible, too,” Lala said, “along with the horses, milk cow, hens, and goats.”

“This is quite wonderful. You did a very kind thing.”

“I did?” Lala looked genuinely surprised.

“You did, indeed,” Miss Bunch replied, “and after I have a proper cup of tea, we shall plan a wonderful celebration.”

“Oh, I like that notion,” Letitia said as she re-entered the kitchen, this time fully clothed. “I will begin baking at once.”

As Letitia returned to the sideboard, Miss Bay leaned toward her sister and whispered, “To think she’s been cooking in the buff all this time. I shall never look upon my food the same.”

“I daresay you will eat it just the same,” Miss Bunch said, “and be grateful.”

“Humph.”

• • •

Later, the celebration was a great success, featuring a roast goose with all the trimmings and a pie of elderberry preserves for dessert. Letitia would not have the horses, goats, hens, or milk cow in the house, but Farnham the groundskeeper, and Rolph the stableboy, who was now grown and more accurately a stableman, joined them at the table. There was much rejoicing and mirth, and Lala was highly praised, especially by the servants who were relieved to be visible once more.

Eventually the merrymaking quieted and Farnham and Rolph left to attend to the livestock. Letitia attacked the dishes in the big sink, leaving the sisters and Lala to set up a game of Trickits.

After they each won a game, Miss Bunch sat back and said, “What a lovely evening this has been, and that is all because of you, Lala, and your act of restoring our servants. They are so very grateful, child, and so are we.”

“I am sure the horses, goats, hens, and the milk cow are, as well,” Miss Bay added. “A little kindness, as I always say, can go a long way.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you say that, sister,” Miss Bunch said.

Miss Bay looked askance at her. “You think I am insensible to kindness?”

“When was the last time you ever thanked me for helping you when your hip pain flared up? Hmm? Or to seeing to your mending? Or for letting you win at Knights?”

Miss Bay slapped her hand on the tabletop, causing the Trickits tiles to jump and clink. “You have never let me win at anything. I have won all by myself, thank you very much. What about me putting up with your constant prattle about this or that and how you slurp your tea?”

“Indeed? I do not slurp.”

Lala shrank in her chair and started to play with a bit of string she’d found lying about in the carriage house as the sisters’ argument sharpened and escalated. She’d heard them disagree on any number of topics. Sometimes they argued, but this was altogether different, more personal and mean. It scared her. The sisters threatened never to speak to one another ever again, and they didn’t just raise their voices, but they shouted at one another. It scared her that her idyllic existence at Seven Chimneys was in danger, that the sisters would hate each other and they’d leave her out in the cold. Somehow, her logic told her that the anger of the sisters would cause them to turn her out.

“Oh, so you’re on about the birds again, are you?” Miss Bay demanded of her sister.

Each accusation lashed out as a physical blow to Lala. She was not accustomed to crying because of fear or hurt, but even though the words were not directed at her, a tear or two dribbled from her eyes. She paused to consider the situation. No, she would not cry. Crying was uncomfortable and messy and would not help anything, so she tied knots.

“There were gulls, I’m telling you,” Miss Bay insisted.

Lala did not focus on the fight and when she completed her pattern, she breathed on the knots and was rewarded with silence.

The sisters’ eyes widened with surprise for they no longer had mouths with which to argue.

Lala giggled.

MOVING FORWARD

The sisters carried on their argument in silence. Not having mouths was no impediment to their ability to communicate through a variety of hand movements and facial expressions to convey their feelings.

Lala watched in consternation wondering what else she might do to end the arguing. Remove hands? Remove their faces? But she didn’t like those options because she was fond of the old dears, and she didn’t know if she would still be if she took away their sweet crinkled faces with their blueberry blue eyes. Besides, she didn’t know if she’d the power to accomplish such a feat.

Letitia entered the dining room and she, who had been magically banished by the sisters’ father into invisibility, expressed no astonishment to find their mouths missing.

“I was wondering why it got so uncommonly quiet out here,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “And may I say it’s nicely peaceful. Now, don’t scowl at me, Miss Bay, I’ve had years of you and Miss Bunch bickering. Lala, might you help me with the dishes while they quietly sort out their issues?”

Lala nodded and followed Letitia into the kitchen and was provided a towel for drying dishes.

Letitia plowed her hands into the sink of steaming water and started scrubbing away.

“You’re not angry with me?” Lala asked. “For what I did?”

At first Letitia did not answer. The steam loosened a curl that dangled over her forehead as she rinsed a bowl. She passed the bowl to Lala to dry and said, “First, I will tell you how good it is to be seen and heard again, and I have you to thank for undoing that blasted spell. What Professor Berry did to us, to render us as mute and invisible, was careless and unconscionable. To not be heard or seen for so long was personally devastating. I cannot express the depth of isolation it caused.”

Lala could see that. No one to talk to, no one to see your mere existence. It might be fun for an hour or so, but not for years.

“It is my feeling,” Letitia continued, handing Lala another bowl, “that Herschel did not die of natural causes, but that he could not endure the isolation.”

Lala pondered her meaning. The handyman, Herschel, had been unable to live with the isolation, and with no resolution to the problem in the foreseeable future, he took his own life to end his torment. She was of two minds about this. The first was that killing himself was an extreme reaction, and second, he was perfectly entitled to take matters into his own hands.

During their otherwise festive celebration, she had observed how sad the sisters, Letitia, Rolph, and Farnham had been when they made a toast in Hershel’s memory. Lala concluded he had been a good man who was liked, and even loved, by those who knew him, and that he was not one to make such a decision lightly. The condition of invisibility was, as Letitia explained, devastating, and so it must have been for them all.

“It is a terrible thing to lose a significant part of your life to being unheard and unseen,” Letitia said, “and it wasn’t just us who suffered. I know how Professor Berry’s guilt over one imprudent spell tortured him for the rest of his life. He worked endlessly to reverse it, alas to no avail.

“At first I was so angry he had done this to us, and I tried to torment him in small ways. I would not clean his chamber, or sometimes I’d put ashes in his bed. I used wash water for his tea, and moved his things around so that he thought he was losing his mind.” Letitia paused and chuckled. “I did not have the ability to make him pee tadpoles, but I certainly did what was in my power as an invisible person.” She sank a pot into the rinse water. “He never got angry and always treated us with utmost kindness, and he really did try to find a way to restore us, all the way to the end of his life.

“After he passed, the sisters asked if we would stay with them. They continued to research spells to free us, and even consulted the Fiori more than once, but they, too, were unsuccessful.”

“What did you do?” Lala asked.

“I had a choice,” Letitia replied, “to be angry all my days, or to move forward with my life. I was not brave enough to follow Herschel’s path.”

“You moved forward?”

“Yes. I grew accustomed to my condition, and the sisters made it possible to be ‘heard,’ even if not directly. Seven Chimneys is a good place to live—that never changed, and I did not wish to leave the sisters in case they found a solution. They were always good to me, and the only way I thought I could survive in the outer world was by sneaking and thieving. Here I have a proper and law-abiding occupation with regular wages.

“But now I look forward. This is my second life, my second chance of being my full visible self. There is no sense in looking at the past, at the years robbed from me.” Then she muttered, “I will miss cooking in the nude, however.”

They finished washing and drying the dishes and put them away in silence, giving Lala time to digest Letitia’s words.

“So you think Miss Bunch and Miss Bay are angry with me,” she said, “for taking away their mouths, because mouths are important to a person.”

“It is not my place to say,” Letitia replied, “but they will undoubtedly have a thing or two to say to you whether they have mouths or not. You should be aware there will be no sipping chocolate served if they’ve no mouths to taste it.”

The words sipping chocolate were all Lala needed. Immediately she unknotted her spell. However, when it came time to return to the dining room, she was overcome with trepidation. How angry with her would the sisters be?

When at last she crossed the threshold bearing the pot of chocolate, Letitia right behind her with cups and spoons, she was met with silence, and not because they lacked mouths. She faltered and stood unmoving, gazing at the ladies who gazed right back at her, their expressions unreadable.

“Come along, dearie,” Letitia told Lala, “before the chocolate cools.”

“Ooh, sipping chocolate,” Miss Bunch said, once more animated. “Just the cure for what we’ve endured.”

Lala hastily set the pot on a trivet and backed away. Miss Bay, who often seemed to have a sour expression, gazed balefully at her.

“I am not sure chocolate will ameliorate our suffering,” she said.

“Suffering?” Letitia said. “For not even an hour’s time?” She clucked her tongue. “Try decades, my lady.”

Miss Bay looked unmoved. “Sit down, child,” she told Lala.

Lala obeyed right away, and Letitia served the cups of chocolate. When she finished and started to leave, Lala said, “Please don’t go.”

“My girl, you will have to face the consequences on your own, since what was done was of your own doing.”

Lala watched longingly after her as she left the dining room. Then, unable to meet the sisters’ gazes, she stared into her chocolate.

“You should drink it before it cools,” Miss Bunch said softly.

Lala took a sip, but it did not please her the way it usually did. In a small voice, she said, “I am sorry.”

“Eh? What’d you say?” Miss Bay demanded.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I took your mouths away.” Her words were met with silence. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were to take a switch to me, or torture me with a hot poker, or turn me out.”

Miss Bunch’s cup clattered onto its saucer. “Torture? Turn you out?”

Lala nodded. “My grandmum switched me if I was bad. She tortured and killed anyone else who displeased her.”

The sisters exchanged gazes.

“Torture and killing?” Miss Bunch said in dismay.

Miss Bay snorted. “Sounds a little harsh if you ask me.”

“My grandmum said,” Lala replied, crinkling her forehead as she tried to remember the exact words, “it was to instill discipline and loyalty among our people, and to punish our enemies. I got to help sometimes.”

The sisters took their time to digest this information, as well as more sipping chocolate.

“You’ve no enemies here, child,” Miss Bay finally said, “and we do not treat our people, or anyone, that severely. Remember our talk about tadpoles versus nose bopping?”

Lala nodded.

“Good. Keep remembering it.”

Miss Bunch then said. “What on Earth makes you think we’d turn you out, child? Giving you extra chores is perfectly reasonable, but we’ve no plans to turn you out.”

“You don’t?” Her heart leaped. “I’ll do anything you say.”

“I daresay you will,” Miss Bay said.

“I know I was naughty,” Lala replied. “I won’t do it again.”

“Or anything remotely like it,” Miss Bay said darkly.

“I promise.”

“That is the thing,” Miss Bunch told her. “We rely a great deal on trust and honesty in this house. Do you trust us, child?”

“Oh, yes.”

Miss Bunch nodded. “We, in turn, would like very much to trust you, but if you do things like removing body parts, it inspires a certain level of doubt and distrust. Do you understand?”

Lala thought over the concept of trust. After a time, she replied, “I think so. You want to know that I won’t do anything hurtful to you.”

“To us or anyone undeserving,” Miss Bunch said. “What you did was mean and hurtful to us, and we will not tolerate more like it. We would have expected that after you saw how grateful the servants were for being restored to their natural existence, that what you did to us was very unkind.”

Mortified, Lala said, “I never meant to be hurtful.”

“I believe you, child, or at least mostly. You must have had some reason for committing so drastic a spell.”

“You were arguing so much,” Lala replied. “It scared me.”

This time it was Miss Bay’s cup that clattered onto its saucer. She’d a chocolate mustache across her upper lip. “But we always argue.”

Miss Bunch nodded in agreement.

“What was different this time?” Miss Bay asked.

“This time you meant it,” Lala said. “Usually, you don’t. This time you were hurting each other, and I thought it was all over.”

“What was all over?” Miss Bunch asked.

“My nice time here at Seven Chimneys. I thought you were so mad that it would not be the same, and that maybe you would send me away.”

This time Lala thought they were surprised by her words.

“We were rather sharp with one another,” Miss Bunch said, “and yes, worse than usual.”

“Child,” Miss Bay said, “it is not uncommon for sisters to argue, and sometimes they hurt each other while doing so. Unfortunately, in the heat of the moment it is intended to hurt feelings. But then we cool off and get over it, and apologize and go on as before. We have lived with one another in this house for much of our lives, and here we remain in one another’s company. Seven Chimneys is as it has always been.”

“You will leave only if you wish to,” Miss Bunch said, “and if we can trust you not to cast harmful spells.”

“You can trust me,” Lala said, anxious for the sisters’ approval. “I promise.”

“Very well,” Miss Bunch said. “Then you shall assist Letitia with her chores for two weeks beginning in the morning. Do you understand?”

Something about the sisters’ demeanors penetrated the girl’s mind. They were both kind and stern, and wise, but now she felt something else. There was a tension just below the surface that was serious and powerful.

And just like that, the tension dissipated and the old ladies gazed at her with kindly smiles.

“Good,” Miss Bunch said. “Get ready for bed and I will be in to check on you.”

Lala obeyed and ran up the stairs to the east gable bedroom, eager to stay in the sisters’ good graces. While it seemed they’d no intention of using corporeal punishment to correct her behavior, she did not want to disappoint them again.

It was odd, but that forbidding aspect of them, hidden just beneath the surface, reminded her an awful lot of her grandmum.

A DEEPENING SHADOW

Mara grimaced as she followed the warden down steps into the lower level of the city jail. Ice slicked walls where water oozed through joints in the stone masonry.

“Careful,” the warden said, “the steps are slippery in some places.”

She descended gingerly with Ben and Fastion behind her. They wore plain clothes, as did Mason and Ty up on the street, to prevent obvious connection to the Green Riders or Weapons, and thus the king. When first she saw Fastion in garb other than his black uniform, she almost did not recognize him. He looked more a dock worker than a warrior in his oilskin coat and his cap pulled low over his brow. His Weaponly bearing, however, gave him away.

The dank mineral scent of stone and earth rose to meet them as they descended, but by the time they reached the bottom, it was overpowered by a miasma of mold, sickness, urine, and rot. She hoped that whatever was decomposing was a rodent and not a human.

The jail was a dismal place. A half-frozen cesspool had formed in the middle of a short passage. A couple sooty lanterns cast dim light revealing locked doors on either side, each with a peephole.

“This is unacceptable,” Ben muttered, watching where he stepped. “Inhumane.”

Mara’s foot splashed into a puddle of questionable fluids. “Ugh.” Despite the stone walls and heavy doors, she heard coughing and moans from occupied cells, and the muted tones of someone praying. As Ben had said, it was an inhumane place.

They arrived at the end of the passage and the warden turned to the door on their left. He inserted the key into the lock. A rat scampered over the toe of Mara’s boot and she jumped back with a throttled cry. Ben muttered oaths to himself about the conditions. He very much stood up for the well-being of others, which, she supposed, was an appropriate attribute in a mender. Fastion, conversely, remained a silent, solid presence behind them.

The warden handed her a lantern. “Door’s unlocked. You can sign the papers when you come up.” He sauntered back the way they had come and casually banged on one of the doors with his cudgel. “Shaddup in there!”

As if that would help anything, she thought.

The door to Karigan’s cell groaned on rusty hinges as she pulled it open. A dim rectangular shaft of light beamed through a tiny opening high up in the wall. It brought in some fresh air, but that air was icy.

“I’d better go in first,” Mara said. She wasn’t sure she really wanted to see what was inside, but she held her breath and entered. The cell was just long enough to allow someone to lie full length and was very narrow. Moldering straw was strewn about the floor. Her light fell upon a figure sitting huddled in a corner.

“Karigan?” she said.

There was no answer.

In a few steps she was beside her friend and knelt down. She placed her hand on Karigan’s shoulder. “It’s Mara. We’re here to get you out of this place.”

Karigan opened her eye. A sign of life.

“We’re going to take you home,” Mara said.

“You could just leave me,” came the muffled reply, “and let me die.”

This was not good, not at all. “Karigan Helgadorf G’ladheon,” she said in her sternest voice, “your dying would be most inconvenient.”

Silence.

“It wasn’t easy finding out what happened to you,” Mara told her. It had been Karigan’s secretary, Robert, who had guessed that she’d gone to the merchants guild. The stallion, Aspen, still tied to the hitching post there had confirmed his suspicions, but it took bribing some of the attendants to find out what had happened to her. Tracking her down had taken three long days.

Karigan coughed.

Uh oh, Mara thought. That didn’t sound good. “Let’s have a look at you.”

“No,” followed by a full on coughing fit.

“Stubborn G’ladheon,” Mara said. “Ben?”

Ben startled her by being right there. She hadn’t heard him step in behind her. The three of them were a crowd in the cell. Fastion remained in the doorway.

The blue healing glow already emanated from Ben’s hands. “Wet lungs,” he said. He leaned Karigan forward and pressed his hand against her back and the coughing stopped within moments. She sighed.

“I’ve soothed the worst of it, but it’ll require more work,” he said. “Let’s see what else we’re up against.” He gently turned Karigan’s face into the light, revealing bruises, dried blood, a split lip, and a runny bloody nose. Her one eye was red rimmed and swollen, more from crying, Mara thought, than the beating she’d received at the guild house.

Ben muttered to himself about cracked ribs, cuts, bruises, and possibly a concussion.

“Celesta kicked me in the head,” Karigan said. “Don’t remember much after that.”

Mara’s anger burned. Burned so much that sparks flew off the tips of her fingers. She drew her hand into a fist to snuff them out. She wanted to kick Celesta in the head even as Ben took inventory of Karigan’s injuries.

Robert had told them her grandfather had shown up at their office the day of her disappearance and informed her of her Aunt Stace’s death. Mara could imagine Karigan’s grief driving her to action, in this case by confronting the guild masters about Clan G’ladheon’s standing, only to learn the clan was being banished from the guild. Enraged by the triumvirate’s decision, she had initiated the fight with the guild’s guards. Or, at least, that was what they claimed. She had fared well at first, but someone had called in the constabulary to assist, and she’d been overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

Perhaps Karigan’s reaction would have been less potent prior to having been tortured in the north almost a year ago, but afterward, she had changed. Oh, the old Karigan was still there, but often a certain look in her eye, and a darkness that fell over her in quiet moments, marked all she’d endured.

“I can’t do much down here,” Ben said. “We need to get her out of here.”

“We are going home,” Mara told her.

Karigan did not move.

“Would you two give me a moment alone with her?” Mara asked.

Ben nodded and followed Fastion down the passage.

Mara knelt beside Karigan. “What can I do to help?”

“I’m so tired,” Karigan said. “I just want her back.”

Aunt Stace, Mara thought. A commanding figure who had been the leader of the aunts, as well as Karigan’s father, whether Stevic G’ladheon realized it or not. A strong sensible woman who had raised a strong, stubborn niece. Definitely a mother figure in Karigan’s life. The woman who had stepped into that role after Karigan’s actual mother had died.

“I know, honey,” Mara said softly. “I know and I’m so sorry.” Gently, ever so gently, she folded Karigan into her arms and murmured reassurances as Karigan wept.

“I just want her back,” Karigan said over and over. “I just want to die.” Spent by days of grief, illness, and injury, she lacked even the energy to sob for very long.

“Aunt Stace would not want you to stay in this cell,” Mara told her. “In fact, from what I know of her, she’d think you were being ridiculous.”

“Why must I lose those I love?”

The mysterious Cade, Mara thought. Losing him had been another traumatic event in Karigan’s life, and they’d all lost friends among the Green Riders. “It is hard to lose people we love, but don’t forget those of us who remain. We, your friends, need you and want you with us. Ghost Kitty and Condor need you. Your aunts really need you. And what about your father? When he returns he will be so glad to see you.” Then, daringly, she added, “And King Zachary. How would it be for him without you?”

Karigan sniffed but didn’t answer.

“Will you return to the castle with us?” Mara asked. “For their sake?”

She nodded.

Mara sent up a silent prayer of thanks. “Good, because you are coming with us whether you want to or not.”

Fastion and Ben returned immediately at her word. They lifted Karigan to her feet and supported her out of the passage and up the stairs. Mara glanced once more at the cell. She couldn’t help but think of it as a manifestation of Karigan’s despair. She had healed physically from the torture of the previous year, but some part of her remained in the torturer’s workshop.

While Fastion and Ben helped Karigan out to their hired carriage, Mara signed the appropriate papers and was given Karigan’s clan ring, Eletian ring, and bonewood staff.

“She will have to stand before the judge next month,” the warden said.

“We are aware.”

She had learned from Robert, in the midst of their search for Karigan, that the G’ladheon fortune, for a variety of reasons, was almost nothing and Karigan had been working to keep the clan business solvent against many odds, a secret she’d been concealing from all. There wasn’t even enough left in the G’ladheon coffers to bail her out. The Riders had ended up pooling their savings in an effort to make bail. When that was not enough, the Weapons had covered the greater amount. From the look of things, if they had not gotten her out when they did, she might not have survived to her court date.

Ty and Fastion rode up front to drive the carriage. Mara sat inside with Karigan, whom they’d wrapped in a warm cloak. Karigan leaned against her, head on her shoulder, while Ben and Mason consulted and worked on mending her. For now, word of Karigan’s arrest and release would not go beyond the Green Riders or the Weapons, unless the king or queen directly made an inquiry, of course.

Until now, Karigan had managed to keep the clan’s situation secret, and so her friends would honor her need for privacy in the matter for as long as she wished. She had also wisely and conscientiously kept clan affairs separate from her position as a Green Rider to eliminate any appearance of impropriety in her dealings. In so doing, any scandal with the merchants guild probably would not be linked back to the throne. Not all Riders, Mara thought, would have gone to the lengths Karigan had to ensure no lines were crossed.

She loosely held Karigan’s hand with its bruised and swollen knuckles. Once Karigan was feeling better, they would have a long talk about this situation. Keeping clan business and Rider business separate was one thing, but carrying a secret of hardship was another. Her friends would help where they could.

When they reached the castle, they pulled up to a servants entrance and pulled the hood up over Karigan’s head so the blood and bruises would not be visible.

She blearily looked out the carriage window. “Home,” she murmured.

“Yes,” Mara said. “Yes, it is.”

THE NEEDS OF THE REALM

In the nights following her release from jail, an exhausted Karigan slept soundly until Beryl Spencer began her nightly visitations. The apparition of the late Rider sat on the edge of Karigan’s bed and gave her advice.

“It is a subtle art when practiced by the best,” Beryl said.

Beyond Karigan’s bed, behind Beryl, her chamber vanished into a blue horizon with fluffy clouds wisping by.

“Only inept practitioners use physical torture on a subject first.” Stars sparkled in Beryl’s eyes. “Or, it is used solely to break the subject for the torturer’s enjoyment.”

Karigan wanted to respond, but she could not speak as if paralyzed beneath her blankets. Ghost Kitty pawed at Beryl’s leg and it rippled like water.

“Such a one was Nyssa Starling,” Beryl continued, “who tortured you. It was not for information, no. It was for her own pleasure, driven by a sick need for gratification. She gloried in causing pain, in making her subjects bleed, and in breaking them. She especially liked subjects like you, who were strong, and who resisted. It was never about the information you may or may not have been carrying.”

Beryl removed specs from an inner pocket of her shortcoat and wiped the lenses with a cloth. “Obtaining information through interrogation without resorting to physical harm is the finer art. Yes, you must access your darker impulses, but you must not allow them to overrule your soul, or you are lost. Who you are, what you stand for, will be subjugated to the dark. You must exercise restraint and discipline when conducting an interrogation so you do not lose yourself.

“When questioning a subject, less is more. Allow the subject’s imagination to manifest their greatest fears, using suggestion of what could happen to them if they do not comply. Suggestion, when properly posed, is far more effective than inflicting pain and grievous injury.”

She put her specs on. Light from an unknown source reflected on the lenses. She continued to lecture Karigan on the techniques of interrogation as she had on previous nights.

“An effective element that can be used to manipulate their worst fears,” she said, “is creating an atmosphere.”

And on she went at length until dawn began to glow through Karigan’s arrow slit window. Beryl put her specs away and faded out, but this time another figure faded in after her, but she was very faint.

“Kari girl,” Aunt Stace said, “I warned you to be careful with that stick.”

That was all, and then she was gone. Karigan awoke sobbing.

• • •

“You look like all five hells,” Mara said as she sat across from Karigan in the dining hall.

Karigan touched her cheek. “My face powder—?” She had used it to mask her bruises. Was it rubbing off?

“It’s fine,” Mara said. “You just look exhausted.”

“Oh.” She thought she’d probably looked like all five hells since having been released from the jail a week ago. Ben and Mason had taken turns true healing her injuries, which had required a lot of rest, but the illness, concussion, and cracked bones were better though she ached and limped a little. She did her best to cover up the rest with her face powder.

“More Beryl dreams?” Mara asked.

Karigan nodded and sipped her tea.

“That tea is not going to do the job,” Mara said. “Let me get you some kauv. And yes, I remember, lots of sugar.”

Fortunately, with improved shipping since the war with Second Empire and the incursions by the Darrow Raiders ended, items like kauv beans and sugar were once more available, if not entirely plentiful.

Mara returned with mugs of kauv for both of them. “Lots of sugar,” she reassured Karigan.

“Thanks.”

“What was Beryl telling you this time?”

“More of the same,” Karigan replied. “About torture and interrogation. I think it’s clear these are more than dreams.”

“You mean like ghostly visitations?”

“Yeah.”

“I have always heard,” Mara said, looking distant, “that when we sleep and dream, the veil between the layers of the world thins. Perhaps it is easier for her to come to you through your dreams.”

“I think that’s a good explanation.” The dining hall was nearly empty, so Karigan had no fear of being overheard. “I was so trapped in sleep I couldn’t move or speak.”

“Why do you suppose she’s telling you about torture and stuff?”

“I don’t know. Some ghosts aren’t fully present, really, just an echo of memory stuck in place repetitively going through the motions of some familiar task, or so I’ve heard. Beryl knew and used interrogation techniques as a spy, and I could see her training others in life and death. Still, she seemed to be self-aware, not repeating actions.”

“So strange,” Mara said with a shiver. “I wish I had known her better. Or maybe not with all this talk of torture. She was a little frightening, I must admit.”

“Thing is,” Karigan said, “according to what she says, she rarely had to resort to actual torture. At least, not physical torture. It was the suggestion of what she could do that she used to augment the fears of her subjects and manipulate them. I don’t recall everything she’s told me, although I feel like it’s in here somehow.” She tapped her temple.

“Maybe when she’s done she’ll let you sleep.”

Karigan looked into her cup at the black liquid. Steam swirled into her face. “Aunt Stace came, too.” She told Mara of the brief encounter.

“I’m sorry,” Mara said. “It must be hard.”

“At least I know she exists in some fashion,” Karigan replied.

“You know you could take some leave to go home. Your aunts would be so glad to see you.”

“I’d like to, but I have that court date coming up and I’m not allowed to leave the city.”

“I forgot that little detail,” Mara said, chagrined.

“In her letter, Aunt Brini encouraged me to wait till spring, anyway.”

They sat in silence for a time, sipping kauv. Karigan had barely touched her breakfast, her mind filled with trepidation as she considered what she believed she must do. The shame she bore over her actions at the guild house did not stem from the incident itself, not precisely at any rate, but from how others would perceive her. The Riders and Weapons knew what she had done and would maintain her secret. However, she did not doubt gossip was spreading like pox down in the city and, sooner or later, word of the incident would reach the castle, if it hadn’t already.

“Mara,” she said, “I need to tell the king and queen about what happened.”

Mara paused the drinking of her kauv. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

“I don’t want to. I’m ashamed. But it is the right thing to do, and the sooner I get it over with, the better. I don’t want to drag any of you down with me, either, for trying to keep the secret.”

Mara nodded. “I’ll tell Connly your decision and he’ll set up an audience. If it’s any consolation, I think you are doing the right thing.”

• • •

When Karigan arrived at the throne room, accompanied by Connly and Mara, it was empty of all but the king and queen, Counselor Tallman, and Weapons. When the big doors closed behind her, she briefly hesitated and took a deep breath before proceeding down the runner. They bowed when they reached the dais.

“Riders,” Zachary said by way of greeting.

“Rider G’ladheon,” Estora said, “you are feeling well now?”

If anyone asked after Karigan while she was recovering from her hurts, they’d been told she was unwell. People were going to start to think she possessed a rather sickly constitution, but she certainly had been unwell even if it wasn’t the whole truth.

“I am doing better, Your Majesty,” she replied. “Thank you for asking.”

“Was your illness related to your previous condition?” Zachary asked.

Her passage through the heavens, he meant. “No, Your Majesty.”

“Has Shawdell made his presence known again?”

While Karigan recovered from her injuries, she’d written up a report about her vision of the Intrigue game pieces in her office prior to haring off to the guild house to cause trouble. Mara, maintaining the pretense of Karigan’s “illness,” had delivered it to Zachary herself.

“No, sire,” she said.

“Then what brings three of my Green Riders for an audience?”

Connly stepped forward. “Sire, my lady, Rider G’ladheon has a tale to tell you, and it’s not a pleasant one, regarding a recent incident in the city.”

Zachary gave her a long look and she wanted to pull into herself like a turtle.

She began tentatively. In order to explain the incident at the guild house, she would have to disclose something of the clan’s financial struggles. She did not have to reveal every detail, but he should get a sense of it simply by the fact the triumvirate had banished the clan from the guild.

And, of course, there was the news her grandfather had brought about Aunt Stace. That was part of the story, too. Upon hearing of it, both Zachary and Estora expressed their sorrow.

“I recall her very well,” Estora said. “She had a commanding presence that demanded respect. Though she may have come across as stern to some, her manner was, I think, rooted in compassion and kindness.”

It was a good description and Karigan had to fight back tears.

“I’m so sorry, Karigan,” Zachary said softly. “We did not know she had been ill.”

His were a few simple words that expressed so much more.

She told them the rest, how she’d gone to the guild house carrying her grief and rage, how Celesta tore apart Clan G’ladheon’s membership to the guild, and her threats about the clan’s charter.

“It was the final jab,” she said. “I had not necessarily wanted a physical altercation, but I used my staff in haste to trap Celesta’s hand against the desktop so I could grab the document she’d written up recommending the disbandment of Clan G’ladheon. The attendants sought to restrain me for fear I was harming Celesta. It was what set me off and I gladly took them on. All the anger, frustration, the grief and humiliation . . .” She couldn’t meet the gazes of her king and queen, so she focused on the floor instead. “I took perverse pleasure in it, but now I stand before you fully ashamed. I should never have gone to the guild house that day.”

“How did the fight end?” Zachary asked, revealing nothing of his thoughts at her confession.

“I cannot remember much, Your Majesty. I was told the constabulary came in and their numbers overwhelmed me.”

“You’ve something of the berserker in you, as do I,” he said thoughtfully. “Is there more I should know?”

Mara stepped forward. “Sire, if I may continue the story?”

“Proceed.”

Mara explained how she’d become concerned when Karigan was overdue to return to the Rider wing after her rest day, and then how Robert Hollingdale had sought her out. With his help they had located Karigan in the city jail. Mara spared no details about the conditions of the jail.

When she finished, Zachary remained pensive for a time before speaking. “So, let me get this right. Some of my Riders and one of my Weapons retrieved Rider G’ladheon from jail. How many of you were involved?”

“All of us, Your Majesty,” Connly said. “All the Riders chipped in for Rider G’ladheon’s bail.”

Fastion stepped forward, as well. “And all the Weapons. We also contributed to the bail fund.”

Karigan ventured a glance at Zachary. He looked genuinely gobsmacked.

“All of you?”

“I fear it is true, sire,” Connly said.

A wave of guilt crashed over Karigan, not only for the funds her friends had donated to get her out of jail, but now how they stood before the king facing judgment.

Zachary shook his head in disbelief. “You are only telling me now, even knowing this could have affected Rider readiness?”

“We ensured all was well covered,” Connly said. “As for secrecy, we followed Karigan’s example in keeping our actions as separate from the Green Riders and our sovereigns as possible. Karigan also chose to come forward of her own accord, without suggestion or pressure from us.”

“It is true,” Les Tallman said. “Sire, we believed the less said, the better to minimize the damage rumors and insinuation could do to the throne.”

“You, too, Les?” Zachary said.

“I am afraid so. I am, after all, a Weapon.”

“It feels almost as if a conspiracy has been perpetrated beneath my nose,” Zachary said, “but the truth of the matter is that I’d heard some rumor of the incident at the guild and hoped it was not Rider G’ladheon who had caused the stir. I thought it likely, however, given the casualties and the fact there are probably few merchants who can wield a staff so masterfully.”

The heat of shame boiled up to Karigan’s ears and in her cheeks.

“Given my suspicions,” Zachary continued, “I decided to give Rider G’ladheon the benefit of the doubt and hoped that if she were the culprit, she would come forward of her own accord. It is in her character to do so, and she has not proven me wrong. As for the rest of you, I did not recognize the depth of this ‘conspiracy,’ though I know Green Riders and Weapons take care of their own. I appreciate the caution you took in concealing your connections to the throne, and that you returned Rider G’ladheon safely to us. However, I would have preferred having been informed immediately when it was noted one of my own Green Riders had gone missing.

“As for Rider G’ladheon, I would have wished you had come to us to tell us of your clan’s troubles.”

“If I may answer?” Les Tallman looked to Karigan for her approval, and she nodded. “Merchant business is very secretive, sire, especially among clans. For Rider G’ladheon to reveal the extent of her clan’s misfortune, it would have caused the clan to lose face and prestige in its community, and any edge it had against its competition. I’ve family in the leather goods trade, so I know something of such matters.”

Zachary gave her a long appraising look. “And perhaps there was G’ladheon pride in the mix, yes?”

Karigan wanted to wither away. “Yes, Your Majesty. It is a . . . trait of my family. I felt our business failures were a clan problem and I did not wish to burden the Green Riders or anyone else with them.”

“And yet it did become a problem beyond the clan. You went missing, and then had to recover from your time in the jail. This affected the readiness of my Riders, and potentially the needs of the realm.”

She hung her head in humiliation. She had let everyone down.

“You’ve a court date?” he asked.

“Yes, sire.”

“You will need a law speaker.”

“I’m afraid it’s beyond my means.” Even with the contributions from the Riders and Weapons, she couldn’t possibly afford one.

“That is easily remedied,” he said. “The crown retains several law speakers for various purposes. I can certainly spare a couple to your cause.”

A couple! “Your Majesty, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Rider,” he said in warning. “Remember, what affects you in this fashion also affects the proper functioning of my messenger corps. We are entering a critical period. Mornhavon has no doubt been assembling and preparing his forces this winter much as we have, and if the reports are to be believed, we may have to face actual living dragons at some point soon. I must have all my Green Riders at their best. If this had been Lieutenant Brennyn, or even Rider Ash, who was in trouble, I would do the same.”

Karigan went to her knee and bowed her head in even greater shame. “I apologize for my selfishness. I was thinking only of myself and not the greater needs of the realm.”

“You were grief-stricken, Karigan,” Estora said, “and under great pressure from your clan’s business which you were unexpectedly required to oversee in your father’s absence and during your aunt’s illness. And perhaps from other forces, as well.”

Zachary rose and stepped down the dais to stand before her. He reached out a hand. “Rise, Rider.”

She took his hand and allowed him to raise her to her feet.

“What the queen says is so,” he said. “But I can’t but feel somewhat responsible for your circumstances since I was the one who sent your father away. However, I did not expect him to leave his clan in such dire straits, and I did not realize how heavily the responsibilities of the clan would fall on you. While I cannot resolve your clan’s problems, I can assist in some discreet ways in light of the fact it was I who sent your father away.”

“Your Majesty,” she said, “this is—”

“Your clan has been generous to the realm by directly supporting my Green Riders with supplies. I certainly will not allow your clan’s charter to be revoked.”

Karigan bowed her head again to hide her tears.

“You endeavored to keep your family business separate from that of the Green Riders, and any aid rendered will appear as unrelated. I will mark, however, that there was indeed a loss of discipline in your behavior at the guild that, regardless of the reason, is unacceptable and cannot go unpunished.”

She wondered in trepidation what he had in mind. Laundry duty? Detention in a block house cell?

“Sire, if I may interject,” Connly said, “might she not have been punished enough by the beating she received and having been locked up?”

“Valid points,” he replied, “but I have something very special in mind for her.”

KARIGAN RIDING

Some punishment, Karigan thought. She slapped Storm’s muscular neck as she rode him into the paddock of the royal stables. Certainly the weather could be harsh for riding this time of year, and of course it was in addition to her regular duties, but she found her “punishment” quite pleasurable and therapeutic for her grief. Time with horses was always a balm, but it was even more deeply so in light of her loss of Aunt Stace. The man Zachary trusted to exercise his horses had slipped and fallen on the ice one day and broken his arm. There were few people, Zachary said, whom he would trust with his horses. Horse Master Riggs was one, but she was too busy with her own regular duties to exercise his horses. So, he’d ordered Karigan to fill in. His warhorses, in particular, must be in good condition by spring.

Storm, whom she’d once called Pumpkin because she hadn’t known his real name, huffed and steam plumed from his mouth and nostrils. During Second Empire’s siege of Sacor City, she’d ridden him in full armor at Estora’s behest to attend a parley with the enemy.

Zachary possessed no fewer than six heavy war steeds like Storm, eight light warhorses, and various saddle and carriage horses. She was to concentrate on the warhorses. It actually required quite a bit of extra work. She needed to rise earlier than usual and work late in order to fit in as many horses as possible for a proper level of exercise. Riding out in the countryside would help, but the prohibition on her leaving the city remained in effect, so the west castle grounds and occasional jaunt into the city would have to do. At least the city gave the horses a change of pace.

Battle training for heavy cavalry horses, with all their offense and defense maneuvers, was a whole other discipline in riding that Karigan knew little about. Unlike the heavy cavalry, messengers were skirmishers and used speed and agility in combat—their horses were not battering rams to plow into the enemy. In any case, Horse Master Riggs said it was all right to give them a break from their usual training maneuvers to stave off boredom.

She dismounted at the stable entrance and loosened Storm’s girth. The royal stables were a grand home for horses though she doubted they appreciated the statuary and other architectural flourishes that adorned it. She did think they liked their big airy stalls. The stable master, Dix, hobbled out to take Storm. He was not an old man, but was bent from too many years, he said, of farrier work.

“How was your ride?” he asked.

“Lovely,” she replied. “Storm is such a gentleman.”

“Will this be all for you this afternoon?”

“I can fit in one more, I think.”

“Let me get Storm brushed down and blanketed, and I’ll fetch another.”

“No worries. I’ll saddle up someone myself.”

“You’re spoiling me, Rider,” he said as he led Storm away.

She shook her head in wonder that Zachary’s usual exercise rider did not help. She walked down the aisle, thinking to take out Tucker, but a big stallion she hadn’t seen before occupied a stall that was usually empty. The door bore no name plate.

“Well, hello,” she said, approaching him slowly.

He watched her with soft brown eyes. When she reached him, he whiffled her hand.

“Aren’t you handsome,” she said. She patted the soft, silken hide of his neck. His silvery coloring was unusual, but not unheard of. He bore a star on his forehead. He must be a recent acquisition of Zachary’s.

He snuffled her shoulder and sneezed, and she laughed, which brought his ears to point.

“Want to go for a ride?” she asked.

He scraped the floor with his hoof and bobbed his head as if to say that was exactly what he wished.

She hesitated. She didn’t know this horse, but he was clearly as well-mannered as the others. And come to think of it, she hadn’t known the others, with the exception of Storm, before she began her punishment. The stallion stomped impatiently.

“All right, all right,” she said.

He was similar in size and conformation to Tucker, about seventeen or eighteen hands high, but not as heavyset as Storm. Tucker’s gear, she thought, should fit. He appeared to be freshly groomed, so it was but a matter of tacking up. When she bridled him, he mouthed the bit as though it tasted strange, a look of hard concentration in his eyes.

“Not your usual bit, eh?” she said. “If it doesn’t work, I can switch it out.”

He nudged her arm as if to tell her to get on with saddling him, which she did. At first he shook himself after she tightened the girth and gave her a side eye as if this was entirely too undignified.

“Hey, you said you wanted a ride,” she told him.

He snorted.

She laughed as she led him out for he was stepping funny and wiggling his body. She’d never seen anything quite like it. Was he unbroke? Usually an unbroken horse reacted much more strongly, and he had accepted the bridle, bit, and saddle, even if he’d given her funny looks. Maybe it felt strange to him because it wasn’t his usual gear.

He was no yearling, but a youngish adult. She lifted his upper lip to check his teeth, but he pulled his head back and huffed in affront. This was, she thought, going to be an interesting ride. The stallion had plenty of personality. He almost reminded her of a messenger horse. The question was, how well trained was he?

He stood quietly by the mounting block. At first she just lay across the saddle to see how he would react to her weight on him without committing herself to a full mount and possibly learning the hard way he was untrained. His only reaction was to twitch an ear in her direction and glance back to see what she was doing.

“All right,” she said, “let’s give this a try.”

She mounted up and his ears flicked back and forth. He didn’t start bucking, so that was a good sign. After she adjusted the stirrups to the appropriate length, she gave him a gentle squeeze to start walking. He froze, then hopped, and froze again, his front legs slightly splayed.

“What was that?” she asked, tensed at the prospect she was in for a wild bucking ride, but it never came.

She squeezed again and he walked on. She sighed in relief and patted his neck. “Good boy.” But she’d remain wary. He must be green.

She guided him to the path that would take her past the castle to the west castle grounds where they could exercise. As they went, she admired his coloring in the direct daylight, with its silvery shimmer. It was odd, she thought, but then it faded, and she guessed the dappled shimmer had been a trick of the sunlight.

His ears were active as he paid attention to what her hands and legs were doing. After a while, he responded to her every cue almost as if he could read her mind. She relaxed.

No one paid them attention as they passed by, not even when she gave a cheery greeting. Rude, she thought. It was like she was invisible.

When they reached the west castle grounds with the snow churned up by other horses, she put him through his paces. He flowed from one gait to another in such a way that she could not feel the transition. He was wonderful to ride, like floating on a cloud. She laughed when he surged into a gallop. Zachary ought to enter him into the Day of Aeryon races, she thought. Imagine a heavy warhorse beating Crane!

The cold fresh air against her face and the ground blurring beneath the strides of the great stallion melted away all the strange experiences and difficulties that had come her way of late and lay heavily upon her. This was pure. It was freedom. She rode the wind and the world righted itself to the rhythm of hoofbeats.

Zachary leaned against the window casement, gazing out upon the west castle grounds as he often did, either to clear his mind or watch who might be drilling or exercising their horses. He was about to leave for a meeting when, by chance or subconscious intention, he spotted her below putting a horse through its paces. Not one of his own, but a very fine specimen. He longed to ride with her, to see the joy on her face, the pink in her cheeks. She rode as though she and the horse were one, the stallion listening to her slightest cues. It was almost as if they flew.

Wild spirit, she was, and fey, never to be captured—cautious in her approach like a woodland doe, but tenacious and willing to give her full heart to those she loved. He thought he might be one of them. He prayed it was so, and feared it could not be.

Mysteries surrounded her, mysteries beyond his ken. Parts of her he could not understand for she walked in other worlds. He feared he would lose her to them. Could any mortal in the here and now lay claim to her?

He watched as the horse moved into a fluid gallop. She’d been conscientiously working his horses as her “punishment” for the incident at the merchants guild. He was relieved she was moving so well and able to ride, for Ben Simeon had given him a full accounting of her condition when they’d found her in the city jail. Anger surged in Zachary’s chest at her treatment, as well as that of the other inmates. Thanks to Lieutenant Brennyn’s words about the state of the jail, he had ordered it inspected. Upon examining the report, he ordered the lord-mayor to fire the warden and implement improvements to the jail.

“Sire?”

“Hmm?” He dragged his gaze away from the window to find Castellan Javien standing in the doorway.

“The Rhovan embassy awaits your presence in the Red Room.”

War talk, Zachary thought. Endless war talk. “Very well.”

He glanced once more out the window, but Karigan and the horse were gone. She’d be at it again tomorrow, exercising his horses, and he’d be trapped indoors in meetings, wishing he could ride with her, free in the wind.

VALSTARIAN

Karigan was returning to the tack room with Tucker’s saddle and bridle when she ran into Dix again.

“You still here?” Dix said. “Thought you’d decided to go home after all.”

“I took out the big silver dappled fellow,” she said. “Borrowed Tucker’s gear as I didn’t know what belonged to him.”

“You mean the gray? I thought you already took Storm out.”

“I did. This was the other.”

Dix scratched his head beneath his cap. He looked perplexed. “Er, what other?”

“The one with the striking white mane and tail and black stockings, a star on his forehead.”

Dix stared at her. She stared back.

At length he said, “Lass, we’ve got no such horse here.”

“Come, let me show you.” She shifted the saddle in her arms. It was no light messenger saddle but possessed a heavy tree and layers of leather for training. She strode down the aisle. “Here . . .” She faltered. Where was he? After brushing the horse down, she’d returned him to his stall. The door was latched closed. “Someone must have taken him out.”

“Rider,” Dix said, “no one else is here. And that stall? Hasn’t been used for at least six months.”

“No, that’s not possible.”

“I don’t know who you think you rode, lass, but it wasn’t any silver dappled horse I know of.”

He left her then, and she stood staring at the stall as if the stallion would magically reappear.

What is going on? A strange feeling crept beneath her skin and she knew suddenly that she needed to talk to Darys.

She returned to the tack room to relieve herself of Tucker’s saddle and bridle, and then hastened to Rider stables, pausing only to ensure the stallion had not been put out in the royal pasture or paddock. He had not. In fact, no horses were out.

At Rider stables she found Jamien scrubbing water buckets, an uncomfortably icy job in winter.

“Hey, is Darys around?” Karigan asked.

“Yep, mucking stalls.”

She found him in Gull’s stall, picking through crusted layers of bedding with his pitchfork.

“Dare,” she said.

He jumped as though she’d startled him. Word of his sightings of a strange young stallion had come to her through Mara and Tegan, and that there had been something of a ghostly horse presence hanging around Rider stables. Darys had received some good-natured ribbing about it.

“Rider?” Darys said.

“Describe the stallion to me that stole your cap.”

He gaped at her, then slowly shut his mouth. “Why?”

“Because I think I’ve seen him. In fact, I think I actually rode him.”

“You think you . . . rode him?”

She could see him trying to process the concept. She nodded. “Can you describe him?”

“Unusual silver dappling,” he began, and the details he imparted fit the horse she’d ridden perfectly.

Dear gods. What was going on? She paced back and forth with Darys watching on. The stallion had been a joy to ride, so smooth and well-trained as if he knew what she wanted before she even asked it of him. Maybe a little too well trained? But she sensed nothing supernatural or special about him beyond that, though that was a lot.

“I forgot to mention his eyes,” Darys said.

Karigan halted. “What about his eyes?”

“Mostly they were regular,” he said.

“Regular?”

“Aye, brown. But, and this will sound strange, I swear I saw the sky in his eyes. The day sky in one eye, and the night in the other. Then it was all gone and his eyes were regular. I probably imagined it all.”

Karigan went very still. Day sky in one eye, and night in the other? Oh, that sounded very familiar.

“What is it, Rider?” Darys asked. “Is he a ghost?”

“No,” she said. Not hardly.

“Rider, what—”

“Thanks, Dare.” She hastily left the poor young man with his questions unanswered.

• • •

She returned to her chamber in the Rider wing, locked her door behind her, and threw off her greatcoat. She flopped onto her bed and closed her eyes. It took some effort to settle her racing thoughts, but she focused on her breathing and eventually relaxed enough to begin visualizing peaceful scenes of the natural world. Her breathing and beating heart slowed.

It had been some time since she had last done this and she was annoyed with herself for not trying sooner. Were Enver here, he would have begun with a ceremonial cup of tea. It was as if, however, she could hear his soothing words guiding her on a path that led past a lake of gently lapping waves, leaves rustling in the woods. She could smell the balsam and greenery as if she entered a summery sun-dappled forest. Slow was her stride, mounds of moss like velvet beneath her feet.

She emerged into the starry meadow full of the song of birds and chirruping of crickets. Listening to the voice of the world, he had called it, and here she found Seastaria, the Day Horse and her aithen, her balance, her protective spirit and guide.

Karigan wrapped her arms around the mare’s neck. It was both solid and air. The fair skies of a summer day shone in her eyes with scudding clouds moving across their surface. Purity and love radiated from Seastaria, as well as peace and strength. She was light.

Karigan let go and studied the mare, who gazed at her in return.

“Salvistar is gone,” Karigan said of Seastaria’s mate.

The mare was untroubled as she nuzzled Karigan’s arm, sensing her sorrow.

He is but transformed to his true nature, the mare seemed to say. It was more a feeling projected into Karigan’s mind than actual words. He lives on in our son, Valstarian.

Wind whipped the meadow grasses and preceded the pounding of hooves. The stallion she had ridden earlier entered the meadow bucking and playfully tossing his head.

He is still young. This came with a bit of exasperation.

Karigan watched him gallop about the meadow whinnying and carrying on as if to show off his beauty and power. She’d already seen and felt it firsthand, though she thought maybe he’d held himself back somewhat.

“He’s grown so fast,” she said. Salvistar had mated Seastaria in the summer, an event she had witnessed. He shouldn’t even be a yearling, much less born, and yet here he was in mature form. She sensed from the mare that time was irrelevant in such matters.

“Is he . . . Is he Westrion’s steed now?”

Valstarian stopped in his tracks to drop to the ground and roll. He grunted and groaned in a most undignified manner.

None is his master. If he will serve, I know not.

When Valstarian was satisfied, he climbed to his hooves, shook off dust and grass, and sauntered over to Karigan and his dam. Karigan could not help but laugh for he still had grass sticking to his hide, something she could never have imagined of Salvistar.

“Valstarian,” Karigan said slowly, trying out his name. He whickered in approval. She brushed the grass off him and said, “You must not tease the grooms at Rider stables anymore. Especially poor Darys.”

Valstarian only shook his mane.

She petted his neck, and now she saw it, the shimmer in his dappled hide that shone like a cloudy haze.

Then she looked into his eyes. Just as Darys had described, one was the night full of the universe with twinkling stars, and the other was like his dam’s, azure daylight and drifting clouds.

He is day and night, Seastaria told her, dusk and dawn. A more perfect balance.

He seemed to grow bored by Karigan’s attention and turned on his haunches. He bolted across the meadow trailing a wind that bent the grasses, and then vanished.

Impetuous youngsters, Seastaria said.

Karigan smiled, hugged Seastaria once more, and returned to herself. For a time she stared at the ceiling of her bed chamber, feeling lighter and more reassured than she had since the wraith crashed through the ballroom window on Feast of Vendane.

Salvistar was not dead, and his son carried on. That Valstarian came to her and allowed her to ride him probably meant he was willing to take on Salvistar’s role, and that she was still Westrion’s avatar, but she’d worry about that when the time came, which undoubtedly it would.

BACK INTO THE WOODS

Professor Berry’s “sorcerer’s tower” stood like a crooked finger over the pond in the gardens behind the house. Lala gazed into the pond where the ice had melted in spots due to a mild break in the winter weather. Old, granular snow soaked through her trousers to her knees. She liked to look into the pond because it wasn’t always the murky bottom that she saw, but a beautiful coral reef in some distant ocean. Her perspective was as if looking up from the ocean bottom through the watery currents toward the surface where the sun shone.

Schools of fish sparkled like jewels as they glided and darted about in the wavery light. She’d even seen a big toothy predator once that she learned was a shark after reading one of Professor Berry’s books that had survived the pirate ship. Patiently she waited and watched, and was rewarded when her friend, Pearl, a merboy, swam into view. He waved to her. He had told her that for him, it was like looking up from the bottom of a murky pond to see her. It was all very disorienting and interesting.

She picked up her weighted ball and hurled it into the pond. It emerged into Pearl’s world and startled a crab. Pearl quickly found the ball and scooped it up and tossed it back. When it popped out of the pond, she almost fell in trying to catch it.

Back and forth they tossed the ball until Pearl indicated his mother was calling for him. She waved good-bye and the ocean, with its coral and fishes, vanished away, leaving an ordinary ornamental pond. She sighed in disappointment, but perhaps Pearl would play again tomorrow.

She stood and saw the sisters out on their constitutional along a path that circled the pond that Farnham had cleared for them.

“How is Pearl today?” Miss Bunch called.

“Good, but his mum called him away.”

“Well, then, come join us, dear. The day is lovely and the air is very fresh.”

“Too fresh, I’d say,” Miss Bay replied.

“You always say that, sister.”

“Because it is true. It can’t be healthy to inhale so much fresh air.”

“Then work on exhaling it.”

Lala skipped alongside them, now impervious to their sisterly squabbles because she knew it would not destroy the harmony of Seven Chimneys, and they would not turn her out.

“Letitia said you were a good helper during your penance,” Miss Bay told Lala, “bringing in the wood every morning and scrubbing floors.”

“I didn’t mind,” Lala replied. “I did a lot for my grandmum, too. And Letitia taught me to make tarts and cakes.”

“They were quite tasty,” Miss Bunch said.

They strolled past Professor Berry’s crooked tower. That is, the sisters strolled, and Lala galloped ahead to jump into a slushy mud puddle. Fortunately, the resulting splash did not reach the sisters.

“The wild child has returned,” Miss Bay said. “I’m telling you, too much fresh air. It’s plain unhealthy. And, I daresay Letitia won’t be pleased by the mud.”

“It’s all right,” Lala said. “I know how to launder my clothes, and I can scrub the floor.”

Lala did not observe the sisters nodding to one another in approval for she was busy prying a rock from the half-frozen mud to throw into the pond. It landed on decaying ice with a clack! and skittered along until it splashed into open water.

“Child,” said Miss Bunch, “during your penance, perhaps you had time to think over the reason for your punishment. What have you learned?”

“I learned that geese are really mean.”

“Oh!” The sisters nodded in understanding.

One of Lala’s duties had been to look after the Room of Geese.

“I also learned that Letitia still bakes and cooks naked before you come to breakfast. She rushes to dress before you can see her.”

“Uh,” Miss Bunch said, “that’s not exactly the kind of lesson learned that we’d in mind.”

“We have a naked cook,” Miss Bay said. “It is not proper.”

Lala rejoined them and said, “Oh, you mean the lesson I learned from punishment after I was naughty.”

“Yes,” Miss Bunch said.

Lala fell silent to give the question serious consideration. “I have learned that it is mean to remove people’s mouths. I learned that people are hurt when a part of them is taken away. It hurt Letitia when she was made invisible. It still hurts, I think, even though the spell is broken, because it’s like she lost a part of her life and it was terrible not being seen or heard. I wouldn’t like it either after a while. It would be fun at first, but only for a short time. Letitia says that she tries to look forward and not at the past.”

Miss Bunch clapped in approval. “Yes, you have learned the lesson. It is cruel to do such things to people.”

“Does this mean we can have some sipping chocolate?” Lala asked.

“We had better,” Miss Bay said, “if we are to recover from all this fresh air.”

Lala made to run off toward the house, but Miss Bunch stopped her with a “Hold, child.”

Lala waited expectantly for the sisters to catch up with her.

“Has it occurred to you,” Miss Bunch said, “that you still possess something that belongs to another person, something that is important to that person’s existence?”

“I’m not a—” Lala stopped in her tracks. Her expression hardened. “It’s mine!”

“Now, now, you are not a stupid child,” Miss Bunch said. “Think about all you have learned. You took away the Fiori’s voice.”

“It’s mine. Grandmum said it was and she showed me how to take what was mine.”

“Lala, child, you were not born with that voice. The Fiori was.”

Lala backed away. “No! It’s mine and I’m not giving it back.” Then she tore off, pelting through puddles and snow. The sisters watched as she disappeared into the woods.

“That went well,” Miss Bay said.

“I thought we’d gotten through to her.”

“You rushed it.”

“We don’t have all the time in the world, do we?” Miss Bunch said. Then she sighed and asked, “What do you suppose happens now?”

“Either she joins the wolf pack and we never see her again,” Miss Bay replied, “or she runs off to train to become a torturer, or she will come to her proper senses.”

“Let us hope it’s the latter,” Miss Bunch said. “The other options do not bode well for anyone.”

“Nothing left to do but have a cup of tea,” said Miss Bay. “I do not have the heart for sipping chocolate now.”

“Nor do I.”

The disconsolate sisters slowly continued into the house, hoping to hear Lala’s footsteps come up behind them, but they did not.

Lala ran and ran through the woods until she could run no more. She didn’t often cry, not even when she was a baby, according to her grandmum. But now tears streamed down her cheeks as she gasped for air.

How dare they? The voice was hers. Grandmum had said so, and after Lala got it she could sing like a bird. She supposed she didn’t sing all that much, but she had a lovely voice for talking. Not that she talked much. She preferred to listen while others talked.

Still, it was her voice, and so she didn’t have to give it up. Worse was the feeling of betrayal by the sisters who suggested she should not have the voice, that she had stolen it.

She wailed, kicked rocks, and found a tree branch to beat on the ground in her anger. Eventually, worn out, she sat beneath the shelter of a giant pine and shivered because she’d made her boy clothes all wet by the pond and night was falling, which meant it would get colder. She collected wood and threw it into a pile, then withdrew a bit of string from her pocket, and with numb fingers, made a knot for fire.

The warmth of the blaze heartened her and reminded her of nights in the wilderness with Wolfie, but now Wolfie was not here, and in a fit of loneliness, she wept again.

• • •

Over the days that followed, she wandered through the woods, looking for Wolfie, following footprints and the sound of howling. As she did so, she envisioned destroying all of Seven Chimneys to hurt the sisters as much as possible, and alternatively, returning and apologizing.

She missed her feather bed and the excellent meals Letitia prepared, the games the sisters liked to play, and, well, their company. They’d been very good to her. They could have given her a much worse punishment when she’d taken their mouths away. If she’d done something like that to her grandmum, she’d have been soundly switched.

Eventually she found Wolfie, but he was too busy with his new wolf friends to do more than say hello before bounding off with the pack. This brought even more tears.

She snuck back to Seven Chimneys, and while everyone was still asleep, entered through the kitchen door, which was never locked, and found apple tarts sitting out on the sideboard to cool overnight. She stuffed one, and then another, and then another, in her mouth to quell the complaints of her empty belly.

She found a half loaf of the previous day’s bread in the breadbox and took it; then she went into the larder and filled a sack with cheese and leftover chicken, and, for good measure, grabbed a jar of strawberry preserves. Then she stole off to her big pine in the woods.

It was wrong to steal the food, but she rationalized if she hadn’t run away, she’d be eating it anyway. She enjoyed the food by her campfire, but when she finished, she missed the camaraderie she’d become accustomed to at Seven Chimneys. She spent another miserable night in the woods.

In the early morning, she snuck back into the house, this time finding her favorite cinnamon muffins, another half loaf of bread, and leftover mutton. She also visited the pond to peer into the ocean. Though she saw the beautiful corals and fish, Pearl never appeared. She hurled the ball they played with as far away as she could in frustration.

Her days went on like this, snatching some food from the kitchen, including some dense chocolate cake that was pure ecstasy, checking the pond, then spending her days and nights in the woods. Alone.

Did they miss her? she wondered? Did they wonder if she was all right? Surely the meticulous Letitia had noticed food gone missing. She’d been baking so prolifically of late.

No, they hadn’t come looking for her; they hadn’t called her name. They didn’t care for her after all. She curled up before her little campfire to consider her options, whether it was to be repentance or revenge.

A VOICE OF ONE’S OWN

“I’ve never heard you sing.” At last Pearl had appeared when she called for him. He and his family, he explained, had been out hunting a school of yellow fins. He bobbed in the darkness of the pond. “Gah, but it is cold here where you live.” His voice had a breathy quality to it, and the gill slits of his throat fluttered when he spoke.

Lala tossed the ball and Pearl neatly caught it, his webbed fingers providing him an advantage.

“I can sing beautifully,” Lala replied.

“Then why don’t you? My people are syreen. We value the beauty of song above all else.” He tossed the ball back to her. It was sopping wet and splattered her.

She shrugged. “I don’t feel like it.”

“Then why do you need the voice?”

“I use it for talking,” she replied.

“You can’t speak without it?”

“I could, sort of. I just didn’t like talking much.”

“Does having this voice make you talk more?”

She shrugged again and threw the ball farther out. Pearl had to leap after it with a flash of his sinuous fish tail breaking the surface.

It was early morning and the sky was brightening. A light flickered in the kitchen window of the house.

“Letitia is up,” she told Pearl, wondering if the woman would miss the purloined scones Lala had stowed in her pockets.

Pearl swam close again. “Just tell them you’re sorry.”

“No. They’ll make me give my voice back. Hey, I’ve gotta go before anyone sees me.”

Pearl watched after her as she ran into the woods. He tossed the ball onto the pond’s bank and dove deep with a flick of his tail.

• • •

Lala lay atop the stout arm of an old oak tree to spy on the sisters as they took their constitutional. A squirrel complained at her from the branch above.

“Shhh,” she told it.

It dropped an acorn on her head and climbed to a higher branch. She glared at it, then returned her attention to the sisters. The oak bordered the back gardens, and though it did not grow directly over the path, it was close enough she could hear Miss Bay’s and Miss Bunch’s words as they slowly strolled along.

“The point is,” Miss Bay was saying, “we all have our own voices.”

“It is a beautiful voice, you must admit,” Miss Bunch replied, “and few can match it, but most ordinary voices are adequate for speaking and singing.”

They’re talking about me, Lala thought.

“Adequate?” Miss Bay said. “Really, Bunch, you should hear yourself when you’re bellowing those awful ballads during your baths. You sound like a drowning whale.”

“Why, I never!”

“I wish you nevered.”

Miss Bunch gave her sister a dark look. “The point is, it belongs to the Fiori. It’s her natural born voice. We all have a natural born voice whether we use it or not. Masking it with someone else’s is like hiding your true self. It’s a deception.”

Lala hadn’t thought of it that way. She thought she’d just made herself sound better.

“I prefer to see someone’s true self,” Miss Bunch continued, “whether that person can sing as melodically as the Fiori, or prefers not to sing or speak at all. Both are valid.”

“Agreed,” Miss Bay said. “Even choosing not to speak is, in a sense, a voice, and it makes the girl no less precious.”

The sisters were well past the oak and their conversation faded. They’d given her much to think about. Who was her true self? Mostly she was whatever other people made her to be. Her grandmum used her for spells to further her leadership of Second Empire. General Birch had used her as a weapon to kill others. She had always been what they wanted.

It still sounded as if the sisters wanted her to give up her voice, the one from the Fiori, but their words made an impression on her. No one had ever called her “precious” before. Not even her own grandmum.

• • •

Lala began to feel guilty about her thefts, so when she made her early morning forays to the kitchen, she was careful to wipe her feet on the boot brush just outside the door and sweep up any dirt and mud that she brought in. She also cleaned up the crumbs from the dense, buttery poundcake from which she took slices. Then she washed and dried the knife she’d used.

On her way out, she noticed the wood box was low on kindling, so she ran out to the wood pile and carried in an armload. Then she swept the floor again to clean up the debris that had fallen off the wood.

• • •

One morning she spied the pot and cups used for sipping chocolate sitting on the kitchen table alongside the Trickits board. She missed evenings playing games with the sisters. The games were fun and warm. She missed being warm and longed for a hot bath.

Instead of leaving the house after purloining some cinnamon muffins, she took herself to her room, opened the window, and from there, climbed up onto the gable, and then the roof. The pirate ship’s mast stood tall and proud above all the chimneys. From early on during her stay at Seven Chimneys, she had done this, climbed up onto the roof, and then up the ship’s main mast to the crow’s nest. From there, she took in the estate grounds and the expanse of the Green Cloak Forest turning from gray to emerald as the sun rose above the world.

Miss Bunch tiptoed into the kitchen.

“Why are you walking on your toes like that?” Miss Bay demanded. “It’s very silly looking, like a goose in slippers.”

“Our little mouse is curled up on her bed. Poor thing is sleeping like a log.”

“Ah,” said Letitia, who was clothed for the sake of Miss Bay’s sense of propriety. “This is good news. She’d begun cleaning the kitchen after her little incursions. I’ll make up another batch of muffins.”

“She hasn’t turned into a wild creature again, has she?” Miss Bay asked.

“Well,” replied Miss Bunch, “it looks like she cleaned up her face, at the very least.”

As quietly as possible, Lala descended the stairs. She had washed up and put on her extra set of boy clothes. Now she had to slip out of the house with none the wiser.

The house was very quiet but for its usual creaks and groans. Sometimes she thought the ship it engulfed wanted to break free and set sail, but the closest body of water was the little pond out back, and it was much too small.

She peered into the parlor and dining room, and into the kitchen. No one was about. Once she left the kitchen, she had to make sure she wasn’t seen outside, but she wouldn’t worry about that until she was out the door.

In the kitchen, she hurried to the sideboard and stuffed her mouth with a still-warm cinnamon muffin.

“Good morning, dearie, or should I say, good afternoon?”

Lala froze, then slowly turned to face Letitia, guilt falling over her like an ocean wave.

“I’m—I’m—”

“Have a seat,” Letitia said, as if Lala had not been hiding and stealing. “I’ll broil you a nice steak with bacon and eggs and put the kettle on.”

“But—”

“Sit, dearie. Eat your muffins and I’ll have your food ready in no time. The sisters will return from their constitutional soon and be wanting their midday meal.”

Lala, seeing little alternative, sank into a chair at the table. She’d been salivating for the muffins, but now she couldn’t bring herself to eat. When Letitia placed a plate of food before her, she could only stare at it.

“Try sipping some tea first,” Letitia said in a soft, kindly tone. “Sip some tea and see how you feel.”

Lala took the cup Letitia poured for her. The warmth felt good in her hands. It went down warm, too, and sweet with honey and cream. She sighed, lost in comfort as Letitia bustled about the oven in the background.

She played with the eggs a bit with her fork, then tasted them. They’d just the right amount of salt and pepper. The next thing she knew, she was devouring it all—the eggs, steak, and bacon, and toast with strawberry jam.

“Not too fast,” Letitia warned. “What goes down can easily come back up.”

When Lala finished, she sat back with a full belly. “Thank you,” she told Letitia. “I’m sorry I—”

“Now, none of that. Here come the sisters.”

“I tell you,” Miss Bay was saying as she came through the door, “it’s still too fresh.”

“Then go spend some time in that musty old ship in our parlor,” Miss Bunch retorted.

Miss Bay crinkled her nose. “No, thank you. It still smells like dead fish in there. Millions of dead fish.”

The sisters made much of stamping their feet and hanging their shawls on hooks in the entryway. They did not make a fuss over Lala’s presence, and Miss Bay said to Letitia, “I see you caught our mouse.”

Lala did not know what to feel or how to feel it. She had missed the old ladies. Instead of thinking about what to do as usual, she suddenly jumped to her feet crying, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” And she hugged them both hard.

“Heh,” said Miss Bay, her usual disapproving expression much softened. “You are going to break my ribs, girl.”

Lala let her go and sniffed and rubbed away unexpected tears from her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“We are just glad to see you again, child,” Miss Bunch said. “Here, let us sit. My old feet need a rest.”

“It’s the air,” Miss Bay muttered.

“Go inhale some ship,” her sister snapped.

“Humph.”

Letitia made more tea for the sisters and worked at the sideboard, preparing a light repast. They did not bring up Lala’s voice, but argued over who had won the previous evening’s game of Trickits.

“I’d like to stay,” Lala said out of the blue.

“What did you say, dear?” Miss Bunch asked. The sound of Letitia chopping onions ceased.

“I would like to stay at Seven Chimneys. I was so lonely out in the woods.”

“Of course you can stay, child,” Miss Bay said. “If you’d given us a minute, we would have made that very clear.”

“You wanted me to give up my voice, though, and I haven’t.”

“As we can well hear. Tell us, child, why did you acquire the Fiori’s voice in the first place?”

“It was hard to talk and my grandmum thought it would help,” Lala said. “I mean, I could talk, but I didn’t much want to. I did want to be like everyone else, and with this voice I could.”

“I suspect,” Miss Bay said, “your grandmama also had an ulterior motive regarding the Fiori singing to the D’Yer Wall to repair it.”

Lala shrugged.

“Child,” Miss Bunch said, “sometimes there is altogether too much talking in the world. If you don’t wish to speak, there is no rule that you must. It is your choice.”

“You mean I can keep my voice?”

“You are aware we have our druthers regarding your possession of the voice, but we can’t make you give it back. You are, as all people are, a creature of free will. It is yours to decide.”

“Never forget,” Miss Bay said, “free will is everything. Choice is the word, but make your decisions wisely, for whatever comes of them is your responsibility, and it is you who will reap the consequences of your actions.”

Free will was an interesting new idea to Lala. Up until she had run into the wild, others had always made her do what they wanted. But now the sisters were telling her she was free to keep the voice or give it back, but as she made her decision, they advised her to choose wisely.

“Child,” Miss Bunch said, “a simple word of advice? Try getting to know your true voice. It might surprise you at how wonderful it is, and no one is going to judge you for it, even if you decide not to speak. In this house, we will never pressure you to speak. We will love you, regardless.”

“You love me?”

“You grew on us,” Miss Bay said.

“Yes,” agreed Miss Bunch. “It is so nice to have a youngster in the house. It livens the place and gives us endless joy.”

Lala was astounded. Everyone she had ever known, except for maybe Wolfie and Pearl, had thought her strange and dangerous. She did not recall her grandmum ever saying she loved her. It was a new concept that would take time for her to digest.

No more was said of voices. Instead, they ate the midday meal Letitia had cooked for them and discussed whales and whether Miss Bunch actually sang like one.

Lala sat in the crow’s nest and Seven Chimneys spread out below her like a lone island in a sea of trees. The many gardens remained asleep in their winter beds and when summer came, they’d bloom and burst with vegetables. Ice glazed the pond. Around the grounds was a scattering of outbuildings and, of course, Professor Berry’s sorcerer’s tower. Currently, a wood thrush hopped on her head even though it was too early in the season for them to be out and about singing their beautiful flute-like song

During her time at Seven Chimneys, she had explored the ship and house, all the grounds, and in the forest, occasionally disappearing for hours at a time, sometimes joined by Wolfie but often not. The sisters just told her to stay safe and be home for dinner. Home. A comforting notion after having been unmoored from any permanent home with Second Empire.

Rambling about gave her the opportunity to quiet her mind and think about her past, present, and future, all that the sisters were teaching her and, especially, the love they showered on her.

Her grandmum had been too busy leading Second Empire to show her ordinary love. There had certainly been affection and love of a sort, and she trained Lala in her gift to work etherea. Her grandmum had used her own ability against enemies and as punishment and retribution. Lala knew she could use hers the same way if she wished, maybe even become the best torturer in the world, but what she really liked was making pretty things with it. Wood thrushes weren’t the prettiest birds around, but they certainly had one of the prettiest voices. She shooed it off her head and it fluttered about, then flew around the crow’s nest before heading in a southeasterly direction. Lala had no idea where the Fiori lady was, but her spell ensured the thrush would find her eventually.

Lala sighed. So, it was done. But what of retribution? The Greenie had killed her grandmum, and she could not allow that to go unanswered.

IRON AND SHADOW

The forges of Mornhavonia belched plumes of smoke into the air that darkened the already murky ceiling of mist hanging over Blackveil Forest. Hammer blows on anvils rang through the woods. Under the unblinking watch of the wraith, groundmites crawled like ants over the ruins of Arcosian villages that had lain dead for centuries and dug beneath them to scavenge every scrap of metal they could find. Nails and vessels and the rusted remnants of the empire’s great mechanicals were brought to the surface. The graves of the empire’s brave warriors were plundered for weapons, shields, buttons, buckles, and armor to be melted in the orange glow of forges and then remade into new arms and weapons by groundmites endowed with the skills and knowledge of smithing by their dark master, and by human blacksmiths of Second Empire brought to Blackveil by Lichant.

They touched no remnants of the Eletians for the armor and weapons of that people were not entirely steel, and were tainted now, even after all these years, by light. Little remained in any case, for Mornhavon the Great’s influence on the land once known as Argenthyne had endured for centuries.

The Sleeper Groves were a different matter.

Lichant walked through one such with long strides. His boots burned footprints into the deep moss. The boles of the Grove’s soaring trees wept ochre sap like bloody teardrops. Few Sleepers of Argenthyne had escaped Mornhavon’s conquest and occupation. At first, during that period a millennium ago, he had ordered the Groves to be razed and the spirits of the Eletians within died with their trees. Some Sleepers, however, awakened and emerged even as axes bit into the trunks. These Eletians Mornhavon delighted in tormenting.

He learned from his captives, however, that his influence over Blackveil had oozed into the trees of the Grove, and then into the Sleepers themselves. With this knowledge, he left the Groves alone, recognizing how much it would grieve the surviving Argenthynians to know that he’d turned the hearts of those they loved to darkness, and that one day he would be able to make use of them against their own kin.

That day was upon them.

Lichant stabbed Dirasgheul into the soft, rotted trunk of the first tree he came upon. It shuddered and dropped pine needles and branches. He thrust deeper. The tree groaned and sap runneled down the sword’s blade. Lichant withdrew the sword and did the same to the next tree, and then the next, and the next. The trees of the Grove wailed as finally they succumbed to the power of Mornhavon the Great.

Lichant stood silent beneath the groaning boughs of the trees and waited. When at last the Sleepers awakened and emerged into the world, they stumbled about stupid and naked, or with rags hanging from their limbs, and coated in sap. Groundmites converged upon them and washed away sap with water and harsh brushes. Then they were lined up, too stunned and not yet fully awake enough to fight.

Lichant stalked down the line, stared into their eyes. It stabbed a male in the heart whose sapphire eyes still radiated light, the light that was the gift of Avrath upon all Eletians. A great lord of Argenthyne he’d been, perhaps, with the strength to have endured for so long. The eyes of the remaining Eletians were blackened pits of corruption, their light snuffed out. Lichant did not kill them. Their expressions were feral and reflected thoughts and desires that bloomed with darkness.

“You are soldiers of the Great One,” Lichant rasped. “Once you were weak spirits of the moon, but now you are mighty. You are mighty soldiers of iron and shadow called to serve the will of Mornhavon the Great.”

The groundmites herded them off and brought Lichant its horse beast. The creature had been captured and broken for riding. These wild horses, modified by the Great One long ago, had roamed the forest for centuries and developed into fierce and hardy stock. Scales on their bellies and necks, and sharp-spined manes, had helped protect them from predators and naturally armored them for battle.

Lichant reined its mount away but did not go far before a subtle mist rose in its path. The acidic vapor twined and drifted, inhabited by biting swamp insects and carrion flies. Lichant bowed in its saddle to its master.

A hundred thousand voices, far and near, some whispering, others shrieking or hissing, arrived from a multitude of locations and times. They spoke one word: “Lichant.”

“My lord.” Lichant’s brittle voice was nearly lost in the cacophony of Mornhavon’s chorus.

“PROGRESS.” The ground shook and trees swayed above.

Lichant stabbed spurs into its nervous horse’s sides to steady it. “The work party has reached the location of the wall’s dead tower.”

“You will COMPEL them to BREAK THE WALL.”

“It will be done.” Lichant little feared its powerful lord. Most of its emotions had long ago died during its imprisonment beneath its cairn, as puckered and dried up as its parchment skin. It knew only obedience and reverence for its master.

“Go now,” the Great One said.

Lichant bowed again. The mist that embodied its master sank to the ground and the tension in the forest settled like a sigh.

Lichant reined the horse around to follow decayed roads and paths long choked by overgrowth and debris, and to ride through wild land that had long lain forgotten and untouched by Eletians and humans.

At journey’s end, Lichant would carry out its master’s orders to break the wall.

THE INTERROGATOR

“You can’t do this,” Lucas Croft protested. “It’s not lawful.” When he tried to stand, his captors shoved him back into his chair.

They’d grabbed him out of the Golden Rudder in Rivertown and kept him blindfolded for the whole long journey by carriage and sleigh to . . . wherever. Though he had been unable to keep track of the days and had no sense of direction, the sounds of crowds and traffic he’d begun to hear indicated a big town, maybe even Sacor City. At no point along the way had his captors told him where they were going or what they wanted. He assumed, that at long last, his crimes had finally caught up with him, that he’d crossed the wrong person, someone powerful enough to hire these two to retrieve him.

They unbound his wrists and removed his blindfold. He shook his hands out and blinked rapidly in relief.

“You will sit nice and quiet,” one of the men said, “or we’ll truss ya up again.”

They had brought him into a building that was freezing cold and smelled of old blood and offal. Their voices and movements rang out into an empty expanse that was difficult to see with two half-shielded lanterns glaring directly into his eyes. If he squinted, he could make out certain details nearby, and they were dismaying. Large hooks hung from chains overhead and the floor beneath his feet was deeply stained by what could only be the residue of the butchering trade. They had brought him to a slaughterhouse.

“Wh—why are we here?” he asked.

“Someone wants to talk to you.”

“Just talk?”

Neither of his captors replied.

He did not know how long he’d been waiting for this “someone” to come talk to him, but his bladder was full for his captors had allowed him to drink as much ale as he wished with his meager supper of bread and cheese before they dragged him to this place. Now they wouldn’t let him take a piss and he fidgeted, hoping that this ordeal was over sooner rather than later so he could. That was if he was still alive . . .

He glanced up at the big hook that hung over his head, wondering what they had in store for him. As much as he had wheedled and cajoled his captors, they had told him only that he was a thief. He had stolen some money, true, but that was all. He imagined himself swinging from the hook like a pig at slaughter. He licked his lips and tasted the salt of sweat.

The longer he sat, the more his mind wandered, worrying about who the person was that had him brought here and what they intended. Had those old G’ladheon crones sent these men after him?

“I need to piss,” he told his captors again.

No answer.

He bounced his knee both at the urgency of his need to go and the building anxiety over his ultimate fate. Now his mind didn’t just wander; it raced as he imagined his corpse tossed into a ditch, how they’d do the deed. Would they kill him fast, or slowly torture him, or maybe beat him beyond recognition? Leave him in a snowbank to bleed out?

Tip-tap, tip-tap

The new sound approached from somewhere behind him.

Tip-tap, tip-tap

It was accompanied by slow, soft footsteps. Someone circled round him beyond the light of the lanterns. His heart hammered in his chest.

The tapping ceased in front of him. He squinted and made out the silhouette of a figure, but little more.

He could no longer contain himself. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“Yer not the one asking questions,” one of his captors warned. “Keep yer mouth shut until you are addressed.”

“I demand answers.” Lucas started to rise from his chair but he was forced back down.

“You want we should gag you?” the captor asked.

Lucas shut his mouth.

Tip-tap, tip-tap

The mystery person moved behind him again. He guessed the tapping sound was a cane or some sort of walking stick. The tapping paused directly behind him. When he tried to look, one of the men gripped the crown of his head and made sure he stared straight ahead.

“Master Croft,” came a soft voice by his left ear. His hair stood on end. Then he relaxed recognizing a woman’s voice. Women were soft. This one wouldn’t do anything—

“Master Croft,” she said again directly into his ear. “I have been waiting for you.”

Tip-tap, tip-tap

She did not stop until she stood in front of him. “I have been looking forward to meeting with you for some time. It seems you stole a great deal of money when you were entrusted as an accountant.”

So, this was indeed a hireling of the G’ladheon sisters. He started bouncing his knee again as his bladder reasserted itself.

“Do you deny this theft?” she asked.

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Your attitude is unfortunate,” she replied. “An admission of guilt would make it so much easier on you.”

“Easier than what?”

“My chair, please, and the table,” she said.

One of the men stepped away and brought back the requested items. She set a heavy object on the table that clattered like a bag of tools.

He perceived her stepping closer, and suddenly the handle of a cane protruded between the lanterns. He jumped and stiffened in anticipation of a blow. Instead, she placed the handle beneath his chin and tilted his face up. He tried to swat it away, but the big man holding him down caught his wrist.

“Now, now, Master Croft,” she said. “I’m just trying to get a look at you. A bit pasty-faced, are you? Spend all your time inside taking care of the books and calculating how much to steal, eh?”

He sputtered. “I’ve been an accountant for twenty years and never—”

“Silence.” Her voice was deadly, and she forced the cane handle harder against his chin, causing him to gasp.

And then just as suddenly, she withdrew it into the dark. To his shame, a trickle of warm urine dampened his trousers.

She lifted one of the lanterns away to her table and adjusted the shield so that it did not glare into his eyes as much, but it revealed little else. She remained concealed in the dark but for a half-moon of her face, her eye covered by a patch. No soft woman was this.

“I hear,” she said, “you spent most of your stolen funds on whores and gambling.”

“I did not! I—” Then he realized he had just confessed to stealing.

“So, you admit to the theft?”

“I admit nothing.”

The chair creaked as she sat. She opened the bag. It was made of heavy waxed canvass and leather like a workman’s bag. She removed some metal implements and carefully arranged them on the table. He could not see what they were though the light glinted dully on them. She did not speak while she placed the tools exactly the way she wanted them. Despite the coldness of the place, sweat broke out on his face and beneath his armpits. What did she intend?

She then removed two of the implements. A knife blade flared in the lantern light. Then came the sound of her scraping the blade against a whetting stone. She did not speak for many minutes. More sweat rolled down his face and he thought his bladder might release the remaining urine.

She inspected the knife, holding the cutting edge at eye level. When she was apparently satisfied, she held it in the light. It was a small specifically shaped knife like he had seen menders use.

“I have many tools for many uses,” she said. “They are by and large ordinary. A hammer to pound nails into wood. Others are a little more specialized like a bone saw that menders use to cut off limbs.”

She lifted the bone saw so he could see it in the light. It cast a toothy shadow across the half-moon of her face.

“Why?” he asked, voice quavering. “Why are you showing me these things?” Innately he knew the answer.

She smiled and set the saw aside, positioning it ever so carefully. “It’s appropriate we sit in an old slaughterhouse, is it not?”

More urine ran down his leg and he whimpered. It was what she left unsaid that caused him to tremble.

“Do you know what this tool is?” she asked, showing him the knife once more.

He licked his lips, did not answer.

“No?” she stood and walked around him again this time without the tip-tap of the cane. Her soft footfalls paused behind him.

“Let me go, please,” he said.

Silence.

“Please,” he said. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”

Suddenly she was right there again, whispering into his ear. “Are you so sure?” She pressed the flat of the knife against the pulse in his throat.

He swallowed, felt the pressure of the blade as he did so. “I hurt no one. I—I just . . .”

“Did you know,” she said in that dead calm voice of hers, “one of the G’ladheon sisters died? Perhaps she had been sick for a time, but the theft of her family’s savings hurried her to a premature grave. It was not just her and her sisters who relied on those funds, either, but an entire clan, and an entire network of business contacts. You see, when you are the head of a clan, your responsibility is to the people you lead and support, as well as those who depend on the clan for services, goods, and opportunities. Many are displeased with you, Lucas Croft.”

“I’m real sorry,” he said, “about the sister. Was it Stace?”

The knife pressed harder against his neck, the edge coming into play. He sobbed. She held the blade there firmly for what felt like an eternity. He feared swallowing would cause it to slit his artery, which, of course, gave him an uncontrollable urge to swallow even more. He almost laughed at himself for thinking of her as a soft woman. She was hard and cruel. She would cut his throat, he knew, without a second thought.

“This tool,” she said, “this very sharp mender’s knife, is commonly used for gelding livestock. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, no longer able to control his bladder. The last of his urine soaked his leg.

“You can stop this,” she said, “if you admit that you stole the G’ladheon clan’s funds. Otherwise, a few more bloodstains on the floor of a slaughterhouse won’t arouse any suspicion.”

Tears gushed down his cheeks. “If I tell you, will you really let me go?”

“An answer,” she said, slowly walking around him again, “or the knife.” She stood before him, halved by bright light and stark shadow. “Provide me with an answer and I will allow you to walk out of here. If not?” The question hung heavy in the air.

To Lucas’ mind, there was no doubt about what he should choose. He licked his lips. “I did it. Yes, I did it. Celesta Suttley put me up to it. Please, will you let me go now? Please!”

She withdrew the knife. “Celesta Suttley put you up to it?”

He sensed her surprise. “Yes. She said I had to do it or she would report all my other, er, activities.”

“You mean, thefts?”

“Yes, my other thefts.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “She said she would report them to the constabulary.”

“Fekking Suttley sheep balls!” she exclaimed, sounding very different than she had just a moment ago.

She strode to the table and fully unshielded both lanterns. He blinked trying to adjust his eyesight. When his vision cleared, he saw a tired young woman attired in gray and black, slumped in the chair, leaning on her elbow propped on the table.

Other people approached out of the dark, including two constables. He darted his gaze back at her. “You said I could walk away if I admitted what I did.”

“And you will. I didn’t say you’d walk free.”

“Who the hells are you?”

She watched as the constables took his arms and made him stand. He was unsteady on his feet, and his wet trousers clung cold and clammy to his legs.

“You don’t know who I am?” she asked.

“Are you a constable? Some torturer?”

She smiled at the last. “None of those things.” Then her expression turned cold and cruel again. “And you are lucky I am not.”

“Then who? Who are you?”

She leaned forward. “The person who is going to see you off to jail for a very long time.”

“I’ll find out,” he said, anger taking over his fear. “I’ll find out and then you’ll be sorry.”

His words did not affect her. In fact, she yawned. She yawned! As the constables bundled him off, he felt her cold, hard gaze following him all the way out of the slaughterhouse.

PLAYING A PART

Karigan wearily stood and strode over to her agents, the longshoremen she’d hired off the docks to track down Croft and bring him to her.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “well done. My thanks to you for everything.” They shook hands.

“A pleasure,” said Ernest, who did the talking for the pair. Roald, who was tall as a giant and just as broad, was a man of few words. “Truth is, Sub-chief,” Ernest continued, “you aren’t at all what we were expecting in a merchant lady.”

“I hope in a good way?”

“Surprising in a good way. You had us going as much as that worm, Croft.”

Roald nodded his agreement.

She beamed. “I’m very pleased you got him for me. Oh, here is Master Hollingdale. He will ensure you receive your reward from the constabulary and settle the second half of your payment from Clan G’ladheon.”

“If you need such services again,” Ernest said, “do call on us.”

“I certainly will.”

As they moved away to receive their payment from Robert, she thought about how, over the long months, she had considered using those funds on the clan’s many other needs. She was glad she had not. The capture of Croft had been well worth it.

Her observers now came forward to speak with her. One was Mara, whom she had brought along for moral support and as a witness should her testimony be needed. The others included the two law speakers Zachary had detailed to work on her defense; a third law speaker who was unaffiliated with the clan, the crown, or the constabulary to be an impartial witness; and finally, the Chief Inspector of the Sacor City constabulary.

It had been her own idea to include observers to ensure a case against Croft and that she did not cross a line that brought new charges against her. As it was, she had crossed into a gray area by having had Croft essentially abducted from Rivertown and brought to Sacor City against his will, but it turned out there were warrants for his arrest and a reward for his capture, which, incidentally, Ernest and Roald would also collect.

“Unconventional,” Inspector Chief Wheatland said, “but effective, and you’ve made my job much easier. We’ve been searching for Croft for some time, though ‘Croft’ is not his real name. He’s used many over the years, and even disguises, which made him difficult to track down. Clan G’ladheon is his most prominent victim thus far, but not his first. He is very good at what he does, but I am still surprised he passed muster with your clan.”

“My aunts hired him,” Karigan replied, “in the midst of a family crisis and with my father away on an extended trading mission.”

“Most unfortunate,” the inspector said, “but now we have him, and we have you to thank.”

“All thanks go to the employees of the Golden Rudder and my agents.”

“Yes,” said the Honorable Master Hopps, her impartial observer. He was a stout fellow with an enormous mustache. “I agree with the inspector. Most unconventional, but perhaps too unconventional. A cruel way to prompt a confession.”

Inspector Wheatland laughed. “You think it cruel? It was high art, a performance, and we obtained his admission without a drop of blood, and well within the limits of king’s law. My constables don’t do nearly as well. If Sub-chief G’ladheon would like a position as an inspector-interrogator, she may have it with the asking.”

That was, Karigan thought, quite the turnaround from having been beaten by the inspector’s constables and thrown into the city jail not so long ago.

“Thank you, Inspector,” she said. “Even if my hands were not full with other matters, it is not a job I’d desire to do on a regular basis.”

Are you so sure? her shadow self asked from the back of her mind. Admit it. You enjoyed punishing the man, bringing him to tears. You wanted more. You wanted blood. You wanted him to pay for our aunt’s death.

Karigan violently shook herself to dislodge the dark voice from her head.

“Something wrong?” Mara asked.

“No.”

The other law speakers, the Honorable Masters Chester and Winston, began speaking of Celesta Suttley.

“A twist in the plot,” Winston said.

“It will bear investigation,” the inspector said, “though we rely on the guild holding its members to account in guild matters. We’ll still look into it, but we’ve only Croft’s word to go on, and he is not an especially reliable witness.”

“Celesta is trying to undermine my clan,” Karigan said. “G’ladheon and Suttley have never been friendly, and the enmity goes back years to before I was even born.”

“Interesting,” Chester said. “If what he said is true, she extorted the extortionist.”

With a promise to look into the matter, the inspector, along with Master Hopps, departed. Chester and Winston now turned their attention fully to Karigan.

“You understand, my lady,” Chester said, “exposing Croft will do nothing to clear you of the offenses you are accused of by the guild.”

“I’m aware,” she replied.

“We will do our best in your defense,” Winston said, “and we are very good at what we do, but please try to keep a low profile and, er, do not initiate any fights in the meantime.”

Was this now to be her reputation?

“I’ll see to it she stays out of trouble,” Mara said.

Karigan glared at her.

“Very good,” Winston said.

The law speakers departed, leaving Karigan and Mara alone in the shell of the slaughterhouse. Karigan began placing Mason’s animal mending tools back in his mender’s bag. He’d been dubious about lending them out, which she understood, but when Mara helped explain why they were needed, he relented.

“How are you doing?” Mara asked.

Metal clinked as Karigan set the bone saw in the bag. “Tired, cold.”

“I mean . . .” Mara waved her arm about. “All this business.”

Karigan paused. How did she feel? “Satisfied we got Croft, but not happy to learn Celesta used him to sabotage my clan.”

“I’m sure that goes without saying. But I mean this.” Mara indicated the chairs and table. “The interrogation itself. That was an intense scene. It would seem Beryl instructed you well.”

The ghost in question appeared behind Mara’s left shoulder, peering at her through her specs.

Karigan closed Mason’s bag. “I feel like I want to go home and warm up with a cup of tea and pet Ghost Kitty.”

“I understand,” Mara said.

Did she? Could she really understand? Karigan collected her bonewood cane and hefted the bag of tools. The ghost of Beryl Spencer nodded solemnly to her before backing into the dark and vanishing.

Mara extinguished one of the lanterns and used the other to help guide their way out of the slaughterhouse to where their cab awaited them. Even leaving behind the large, abandoned building, with its hooks that once held the carcasses of livestock, to the dark, shadows clung to her inside and out.

They climbed into the cab and set off, bumping over the cobble street.

“You know,” Mara said, “you can be pretty scary sometimes.”

“That was not me back there,” Karigan replied, hoping her friend did not think less of her for the evening’s performance.

“Perhaps not,” Mara said, “but we all have a dark side.” A long moment passed before she added in a lighter voice, “We best not tell Tegan or she will recommend you for a part in the latest play at the Royal Magnificent.”

Karigan laughed. It was a good, honest laugh untainted by the shadows. “So long as it’s not Mad Queen Oddacious.”

But, she wondered, with the soothing clip-clop of the carriage horse’s hooves, had she really been acting?

No. Her shadow self sat across from her next to Mara. I have been, and always will be, a part of you.

Karigan pulled her coat more tightly around her and looked out the carriage window. The yellow light of streetlamps glared on icy surfaces. A part of her, she admitted, had been caught up in the moment. She enjoyed the process of heightening Croft’s fear, the heady sense of power that throbbed through her veins. He had deserved it for what he’d done to her family. She had not, despite the temptation, the pull to do so, gone over the edge. She had not given herself fully to the dark.

You wanted to, her shadow said.

“No.”

“No what?” Mara asked.

Karigan hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. “Snow. I meant snow. It’s snowing.”

“It is?” Mara glanced out her window. “Barely a flurry, but Tegan did say something about another storm on the way.”

Phew, Karigan thought. She didn’t want her friend and lieutenant to think she was losing her mind, though sometimes she wondered about herself and seeing her shadow. She considered once more the idea of giving over to her dark self and the feeling of power it had given her. It appalled her that she had enjoyed it. Was that how her enemies had felt? Old Lord Mirwell? Captain Immerez and Grandmother? Shawdell? There had to be a reason why they went out of their way to torment people or attempt to steal thrones. The glory of power over people. She shuddered. That isn’t me. It’s not.

“You know,” Mara said, “I’m glad you told us about the Croft situation and chose to get the constabulary and law speakers involved. That has gotten him some uncomfortable nights in jail, and everything was done openly. It might not have looked good if you hadn’t, especially with your trial coming up.”

“Us” had been Mara, Connly, the law speakers, and Zachary. The time for secrets, she had decided, was over. But she had also taken to heart Beryl’s warning to not get lost in the dark. Letting go the secrets and inviting observers in had been a safeguard. Even so, she had felt the pull of the power she could hold over someone and how easy it would be to lose herself in it.

TOUCHSTONE

Storm grunted as Karigan curried his hindquarters and raised a cloud of dust and dander, most of which ended up on her work tunic and breeches. She smiled at how he stretched his neck and wiggled his lips to express his pleasure. Even big and mighty warhorses enjoyed a good scrub with the curry comb.

“Oh, he’s liking that.”

Karigan peered around Storm’s rump to discover Zachary patting the stallion’s neck. She stopped what she was doing to step aside and bow. “Your Majesty.”

He nodded in return. “My lady.” He ran his hand down Storm’s front leg and said, “Hoof.”

Storm lifted his massive hoof, and Zachary caught hold of it to examen its condition. Apparently pleased, he released it and it clunked to the cobbled floor.

“Storm and the others are doing very well,” she said.

“So I have heard. I should punish you more often.”

“Uh . . .”

“I wanted to see how you were getting on,” he said. “I know your life has been rather full of late.”

She resumed currying. “To be honest, this punishment has been a balm. Your horses are so well trained and ready to please. They don’t complain, they don’t have ulterior motives, and they are good company and rather ordinary. Ordinary means a lot to me.”

“I am not surprised,” he said softly.

“The fresh air doesn’t hurt, either.”

He patted Storm’s wither. “I admit I’ve been concerned about you after all you’ve been going through, the passing of your aunt, the issue with the merchants guild, not to mention what happened on Feast of Vendane. I thought you’d be interested to know that the jail you were held in was inspected and will be closed for renovation and repair. The warden has been arrested for stealing funds that were allocated for improvement. Subsequently, he is now imprisoned himself, but in much better conditions. I am appalled by what I heard of that jail, and to learn how injured you were, and that no one tended to you. I am sorry beyond words.”

“Ben and Mason put me back together,” she said. “I am better.”

“All the same, what you suffered at the hands of the warden’s greed was uncalled for. The other prisoners were quite ill, as well.”

She set the curry comb aside and took up a comb to use on mane and tail. “I’m glad something good came out of my fight at the guild house.”

“And speaking of criminals, you got Croft, who had swindled many good people.”

She worked the comb into the coarse hairs of Storm’s tail. “I didn’t catch him. The men I hired did.”

“You sent them after him,” Zachary said, “and set up the interrogation last night. Winston and Chester were very impressed. I did not know you possessed interrogation skills.”

“I don’t,” she said. “Or, rather, I did not.”

“But you do now?”

She paused. “I had special instruction from Beryl Spencer.”

“Beryl Spencer? How is that even possi—? Oh. My spymasters have been missing her,” he said, “and her particular skills. Having another Rider who can—”

“No.” Then realizing how sharply she’d spoken to her king, she said, “It is not something I would be willing to do again.”

“I understand. It is not pleasant business.”

She parted Storm’s tail into more reasonable strands and resumed combing. It wasn’t that the interrogation had been unpleasant. It was that it had held too much allure. She briefly closed her eyes, remembering the thrill of power she had commanded over Croft. She feared if she were put into such a position again, the sense of power would seduce her into crossing the line, that she would become a sadist the likes of Nyssa Starling.

Tsk, tsk. Her dark shadow leaned against a nearby stall door. The power IS in you and should be used. And what is wrong with crossing the line when it involves someone who deserves it? Croft deserved it. He deserved so much more.

Karigan forced the comb through a snarl. Fortunately Storm did not react. She hated her shadow, wished her away, but could not be rid of her.

“Your ongoing punishment here at the royal stables,” he said, “and the assistance you provided the constabulary in regard to Croft, may help you in your court case, either by exonerating you or reducing any sentence, but it is never certain, and I cannot . . . interfere. Not directly, at least.”

“I understand,” she replied.

“I mean I could—”

“No, please, I don’t expect special treatment. I brought this situation down on myself, which means I need to deal with it myself.”

“I know, but Karigan, you need not face everything alone. Remember, the Riders stand behind you, as do I.”

“Thank you. That is—it’s reassuring.”

An uneasy silence fell between them and she attacked Storm’s tail with intensity.

“I have been so occupied of late,” Zachary said, “with war planning and negotiating with the lord-governors and our other allies that I have not had a chance to seek you out, to see how you are faring, and, frankly, just to see you.”

He was almost shy and boyish with the last, and her cheeks warmed. The big snarl in Storm’s tail came loose in a clump that drifted to the floor. She glanced up at Zachary. He’d stepped closer, his hand resting on Storm’s back. She recalled his hands on her, and now that heat rushed through the rest of her.

He looked down and chuckled. “Last time we were alone together, that dog of mine . . .”

She focused on pulling the comb through Storm’s tail. Had Finder not gotten sick, there wouldn’t have been any turning back for them. It was foolish to play such games, yet it had not seemed like a game at the time. Rather, it had felt spontaneous, pleasurable, natural.

“Karigan,” he said, “Storm is not going to have a tail left if you keep at it like this.”

“What?” She looked down at the floor where tail hairs had floated into a heap. She then took stock of those caught in the comb. “Oh! I guess I got overly enthusiastic.”

He gazed at her with a slight cant to his head as she picked hairs out of the comb. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said, “about the beautiful horse I saw you riding the other day. It wasn’t Storm.”

She stilled. “You saw him?”

“Yes. I happened to look out the window on the parade grounds. His coloring was unusual. He was hard to miss. Whose is he?”

She glanced around Storm to ensure no one else was within hearing range. The Weapons keeping watch at a distance did not matter. Even so, she kept her voice low when she answered. “I was surprised you saw us because no one else seemed to, but then you’ve seen the avatar ride Salvistar.”

“I have.”

She gazed at him straight on. “The stallion’s name is Valstarian. He is the son of Salvistar.”

“Salvistar’s son,” he murmured.

She nodded. “His dam is a spirit guide of a sort named Seastaria.”

At first he seemed too stunned to speak. Then, “Does this mean he is Westrion’s steed now and you are still the avatar?”

“I’m not quite sure,” she said. “He was here that day in a stall, and I thought he was one of yours. It became clear after my ride that he was not. It seems he’s been visiting around Rider stables on occasion. As far as I know, Darys is the only one to have actually seen him. That is, until the other day.”

“Darys—Hep’s nephew?”

“Yes.” She was impressed he was able to remember the names of the least of his servants. Most in his position would not even bother. It was one of the reasons she loved him.

He bent down and collected strands of Storm’s tail hair. The big horse’s head hung low, his eyelids drooping, and he snored. Zachary twined the tail hairs between his fingers. At first he could not seem to look at her.

“I do not know how you bear it all,” he said at last. “Being avatar. Everything.”

“I do not know how you bear all you do as king,” she countered.

“I was trained to rule my whole life. It is something I know well, and I expected the burdens I carry. It is not nearly as extraordinary as being called upon by the god of death to be his avatar.”

She sighed wearily. “I may not be handling any of it as well as I could be, considering I snapped at the guild house.”

He caressed her cheek. “I am sorry. I am sorry so much is asked of you, and if there is any way I can lighten the burden, I will do it. For starters, I will ensure the captain keeps you on light duty until you have a chance to regain your footing.”

It was, perhaps, an indication of her state of mind that she did not argue.

“I am afraid, however,” he continued, “soon enough we will all be burdened with defending the free lands.” He glanced at her hand that held the comb. “I am pleased you still wear the bracelet I made for you. If it frays, I now have a new supply of tail hairs with which to fix it.”

She glanced at the bracelet on her wrist braided of the combined hair from Condor and Storm. She smiled.

He leaned forward as though to kiss her, but at that moment, Storm lifted his tail to expel the digested contents of his stomach. They jumped apart just in time to avoid a steaming mass of manure landing on their feet.

She could not help but laugh. It was not as dramatic as Finder’s illness, but amazing timing.

“Oh, Storm,” Zachary said, shaking his head. “Shall we try again?”

But their moment was broken by the return of Dix from his tea break. “Your Majesty! Is there something I may do for you?”

“I simply came to see how Rider G’ladheon was getting on with the horses.”

“Just grand,” Dix said. “Wish I had more like her.”

“One Rider G’ladheon may be more than we can handle.”

I am more than I can handle, Karigan thought.

“Well, if that is all, sire, you might want to know I saw Finder digging up something disagreeable in the paddock and eating it, along with some frozen manure.”

“Oh, dear gods,” Zachary said. “Not again. Terriers!” To Karigan he said, “We will talk more later.” And then he strode down the aisle and out the door to the paddock. “Finder!”

Karigan led Storm back to his stall, reviewing her conversation with Zachary. Much had been piling up on her shoulders. Much that was not normal. It pleased her that he acknowledged it. It would not resolve the pressure she was under, but it helped tremendously to speak of it with someone who understood.

• • •

When she returned to the Rider wing, the common room was packed with boisterous Riders playing games and laughing and singing. She was not in the mood for it and sought sanctuary in the quiet of her own bed chamber.

She stoked the coals on her hearth to a blaze, but it did little to warm or brighten her chamber. She thought to read a book, one her aunts had sent her as a Night of Aeryc gift. It was a memoir by Vann Hampden called, My Journey to the Northern Ice. Considering the storm, perhaps reading about snow and ice and freezing cold was not what she needed just now. When she lifted the book to replace it on its shelf, a slip of paper fell out from between the pages and fluttered to her desk.

She unfolded the paper. It was a note her aunts sent with the gift, wishing her a happy Night of Aeryc with their love, signed by each of them. The body of the note had been written in Aunt Stace’s hand. She traced over the words as if touching something of the living woman. Her handwriting was as distinct as her voice or the wave in her hair. How could she be gone? Grief welled inside Karigan again and the ink blurred in her vision.

She had been little when her mother died, and while the thought of it brought sorrow, it was not so much about who her mother had been—Karigan did not remember much about her. No, it was more about what might have been had Kariny lived. It was a more abstract form of grief.

Aunt Stace she had known her whole life and her loss was as solid as the castle walls falling in on her. Normally she would not think much about a simple note, but now it was more, a touchstone that brought back the living, breathing woman, her voice captured in writing. Karigan would never receive another note written by Aunt Stace again for she was gone. Karigan reverently refolded the paper and placed it in the book for safekeeping.

She wiped tears away, suddenly feeling she could not stand to remain in her chamber any longer. She fled the dark, quiet, cold for the world without.

SEEKING QUIET

She hesitated on the threshold of the small chapel of the moon designated for the common folk of the castle. It seemed worlds away from castle corridors that thronged with people going about their business. The silence and stillness of the chapel settled on her like a soft blanket and already her muscles relaxed and her breathing eased.

The resident moon priest spotted her, and she turned away, pretending she had not seen him in turn, but she was too late.

“Rider,” he called, “may I help you? All are welcome in this sanctuary.”

“Thanks, but I was just passing by.”

“Rider,” he said, “there is only one way in and out.”

She glanced at the stairs that she’d just descended. It was true, there was nothing else at their bottom but the chapel. Well, except for an entrance to the warming room that led to the royal tombs, but that didn’t count.

“Uh . . .”

“Perhaps you’d join me for a cup of tea and a scone?” he asked. “I just put the water on.”

She really wanted to decline. She had wandered this way at loose ends, not really noticing where her feet led her until she was there.

“The scones are fresh from the kitchens,” the priest said, “still warm and I’ve a pot of cream butter.”

It did sound tempting, and at this point it would be rude to refuse, so she smiled and nodded.

“Excellent. I don’t often have company except during regular services,” he said as he led her into the chapel. “Oh, once in a while someone will come to light a candle or pray, but casual conversation? People in the castle are just too busy, always hurrying from one thing to another.”

To her surprise, he set up their tea on the altar. She would have thought it disrespectful, but he had no such concern, it seemed. He pulled up chairs reserved for priests. Plain wooden benches were arranged before the altar as seating for parishioners.

“Thank you, Father—uh—,” she began.

“Brother Leon, actually,” he replied. “And you are entirely welcome. With whom do I have the pleasure of sharing tea?”

“Karigan.”

He offered her a basket of scones, and she chose one on top and split it in half. It was indeed still warm, and the cream butter melted deep and satisfyingly into the nooks and crannies of each half. They ate, sipped, and spoke of small things, especially the weather.

“I have not been up for some while to look upon the world without.” Brother Leon chuckled. “One almost forgets there is a larger castle beyond these walls.”

It was like an island of tranquility, Karigan thought, far removed from the cares of the world.

Without prompting, he proceeded to tell her about life growing up in Hillander raised by monks after his parents passed away. The life of venerating the gods, he said, spoke to him as a calling. He’d tended the shrine in the lord-governor’s keep until Zachary requested he come to Sacor City to oversee the castle’s small chapel.

“But here I am blathering on,” he said. “Tell me, Rider Karigan, how you came to be a king’s messenger.”

“It’s a complicated story,” she said with a smile, “but it was also a calling.”

“Service to the king would indeed be a calling, especially as a messenger.” He poured each of them another cup of tea. “It is a dangerous vocation and you’d have to be prepared to serve under difficult circumstances.”

Karigan did not wish to talk about her history of “difficult circumstances.” Her gaze wandered about the plain chapel with its simple tapestries woven with religious scenes. “How do you occupy yourself when you’ve no visitors with whom to share tea?”

“As a monk I am accustomed to long silences. I pray or meditate upon this world the gods have given us, or I may read the lessons as scribed in The Book of the Moon. If I hear of someone who has been sick or injured, I will pray for them and visit if I can or am requested. Then there is sweeping and removing candle wax from surfaces and replacing candles. But—” and now there was a light in his eyes, “—I also put my hands to craft.”

He removed from a pocket in his robes a carving. Its details were delicately carved, an ordinary squirrel.

“My order was founded in ancient times to venerate Fleuria, goddess of woodlands and all the creatures that live within, but especially the smallest.” With his carving on his palm, he continued, “It is said she would appear as a squirrel or bird to oversee her domain, but like so many of the old nature goddesses, she is largely forgotten. Long ago my order converted to direct worship of Aeryc and Aeryon, overshadowing their lesser kin among the pantheon who have slipped from memory. At my home abbey, however, we still put out seed for the birds and squirrels. Never know when Fleuria will look in on us.”

“I admit I’ve never heard of Fleuria,” she said, “though I am familiar with Marin the Gardener.”

“Ah, yes. She was one of the sisterhood of nature goddesses, and is often recalled by those who cherish gardens. Here, you keep my little squirrel.” He pressed the carving into her hand.

“What? Are you sure? It’s too fine for—”

“You seem in need of a friend,” he said. “A little woodland friend. Please take it. I’ve already begun work on another.”

“Thank you so much.” She was pleased by the unexpected gift and would put it in a place of honor on her bookshelf.

“Now,” Brother Leon said, “perhaps you will tell me what brought you by today.”

Karigan sat in silence and gazed down at the wooden squirrel cupped in her hand with its friendly face. It held an acorn in its front paws. Brother Leon, who was used to silence and being patient, sat meditatively with his eyes half closed.

Why had she come? She knew the gods existed; she was even Westrion’s avatar. Yet, she was not one to pray or attend services though her aunts had made her do so when she was little. She viewed the gods as capricious and doubted they paid much attention to prayers or mortal needs. Aeryon had proven outright hostile to her. As Westrion’s avatar, Karigan knew her aunt had ascended to the heavens and that there was some existence beyond the veil, but . . .

“I . . .” she began. “My aunt passed away recently. She, along with my other aunts, raised me. I thought maybe I would light a candle for her, but I know she’s all right in the heavens and the gods could care less.”

Brother Leon gazed knowingly at her and seemed unoffended by her words about the gods. “But you miss her, yes?”

She nodded, afraid that if she spoke her voice would break.

“Many of the trappings you see in a chapel,” he said, spreading his arms wide to take it all in, “all the services and rites, are as much for us to work our way through life and to its end, as it is to exercise our faith, and to honor the gods. For many, it brings them closer to the divine. For others, not so much, but there is peace and comfort found in the routine. There is no reason why you should not light a candle for your aunt. Such rites are for the memory of loved ones, a gesture on our part to acknowledge their lifetime of existence in this material world even as they have transitioned beyond. It need not be burdened with symbols of worship or ceremony. Would you like to light one?”

Again, she nodded.

He led her to a small side altar where several beeswax candles burned, some sputtering to nothing in their own melted wax. Others were new, never lit. He handed her a red candle.

“Use this to light the one of your choice.”

After she accepted the candle, he moved a respectable distance away so she could have privacy. She did not feel compelled to choose one candle over the other, so she picked the closest one.

“I miss you,” she said to Aunt Stace. Perhaps her message would rise on a thin wisp of candle smoke to the heavens, or Aunt Stace would hear her, regardless. She set the red candle aside and watched the flicker of flame for a while, trying to think only of her aunt, but she thought also of Fleuria and Salvistar, and how temporary life was even for gods and goddesses. Someday she, too, would ascend to the heavens, or so she hoped, and see Aunt Stace again.

She wiped tears away with her sleeve and turned back to Brother Leon. “Thank you.”

“The candle will burn for a full day and a night,” he told her. “My thoughts go with you in this time of grieving. Do not hesitate to visit again. Tea is always at the third hour of the afternoon.”

She bade him farewell and climbed the stairs from the chapel to the main level of the castle, feeling lighter than she had in many days.

TO TOWER OF THE EARTH

Alton and Captains Rennard and Quille stood around one end of a rough wooden table in the dining hall, gazing down at maps. One showed the wall and towers in detail. The other larger map depicted Sacoridia and neighboring regions on the western and northwestern borders, namely Rhovanny and the Wanda Plains. Mugs held down the curling corners of each map.

Newly arrived, Captain Quille of the Island Unit shook her head. “Not so long ago most had forgotten the existence of the wall and the danger it holds back. It is quite a sight.”

Once more Alton felt the weight of that neglect on his shoulders even though he had not been responsible for it. It was his forebears who had failed to keep watch and maintain the wall, but it may as well be on him.

“It makes sense to me,” Rennard said, “to situate Captain Quille’s people at the towers west of the breach, and I can pull all my people east of the breach. It would double our presence at each tower. The D’Yerian militia can then focus on the breach itself. If that is acceptable to you both?”

“Agreed,” Alton said. Though he welcomed the arrival of the Island Unit whole-heartedly, the troops would be only a brief buffer, at best, should dark Sleepers invade through the towers. They needed more, far more, to hold off a devastating invasion, and even if the whole of the D’Yerian militia guarded the breach, it would be unable to block the hordes Mornhavon would throw at them.

“I agree, as well,” Captain Quille said. “My people will have to be fully briefed about what to expect at the towers. They are, shall we say, unsettled by the wall itself and the existence of gryphons.”

“Yes,” Alton murmured. “The gryphons are our allies and I do not want any of them shot down intentionally or not.”

“Understood,” Quille replied. “And there will be Green Riders assigned to each tower?”

“Correct. However, our Rider at Tower of the Earth can’t enter. That one is full of magical traps set by the mage who once inhabited it. It was how we found out about dark Sleepers in the first place. One was trapped in there.” Alton had almost been killed both by the traps and the Sleeper. “I’m taking Duncan down there to look around.” He glanced toward the kitchens where the great mage leaned against the pass-through to flirt with the cooks. Duncan’s tempes stone and leg bone lay in their pouch on the table next to the maps. While the tempes stones of any of the tower mages could be carried from place to place, the mages could only manifest within the towers. The bones of great mages, however, were imbued with power, and Duncan’s leg bone provided him with enough to manifest outside the towers though he must remain in a certain proximity of his pouch. The bones of the other mages had, apparently, been properly disposed of after the passing of their physical forms. Duncan’s physical self had perished in an eyrie of the gray eagles high up in the Wingsong Mountains, where his bones remained.

Fortunately, Duncan had been more than happy to leave his father, Merdigen, in Tower of the Heavens to check out Tower of the Earth.

“You will be relieved to know that other units are emerging from their winter quarters earlier than usual,” Captain Quille said. “The king wishes me to tell you several will be joining us immediately at the wall, so we will want to organize additional encampments and where it will be beneficial to post each unit. No doubt some extra hands and engineers will be able to assist with finishing the stockade and other defenses.”

“Good,” Alton replied. “No disrespect to Captain Rennard and his troops, but progress has been slow in that regard.”

“None taken,” Rennard replied. “You can’t expect soldiers who’ve been building all day to stand guard over the breach all night.”

“Now,” Captain Quille said, “here is the rest of the plan from the king and General Washburn.” She spilled wooden markers of various colors from a leather pouch onto the map. A pattern emerged as she set them into place, of troops positioned to ensure supplies got through, troops strategically arrayed like waves on the ocean to back up those at the wall. The markers clicked as she placed them in rows and groups. “Our own regulars will be supplemented by provincial troops and allies, including, I am to understand, Eletians and p’ehdrose. We live in unusual times.”

“True words,” Rennard replied. “Legends walking the lands once more.”

They discussed strategy for a while longer before Captain Quille collected her markers and rolled up the maps.

“The important thing,” she said, “is that it’s not only a couple units and a single militia that will be responsible for stopping Mornhavon. We’ve all the king’s forces and more behind us. If Mornhavon thinks invading us will be easy, he’s in for a surprise.”

It was heartening to know, Alton thought as he stepped outside, that the aid he’d been requesting for years was finally on its way. He paused to yawn and stretch, appreciating the cold fresh air. It had been a productive meeting, but lengthy, and he looked forward to his ride to Tower of the Earth. He’d invited Estral along, but she declined because, she said, she was at an important juncture in writing her book.

He frowned wondering if that were the real reason. She said she would miss him, but he couldn’t help but feel that she was relieved he was going away for a while. When she’d started getting quiet and pensive, he thought maybe her inability to use her voice to help mend the wall upset her. It was easier than thinking she’d become withdrawn because he was the problem.

I can’t worry about it, he thought.

He had too much to do and, at the moment, that included taking a look at the other side of the breach. As he approached it, he saw how the usual mist over the forest had darkened and drifted through it like probing fingers. He wondered if the help Captain Quille said was coming would both arrive in time and prove sufficient.

Soldiers set a ladder against the repair work for him. He climbed up, unsurprised he could see only a few yards into the forest. The mist smelled of smoke and rotting vegetation. From multiple directions deep within the forest came the din of hammers and the crash of trees being felled. It was difficult to tell how far off the activity was, for vapor laden air warped sound and carried it in strange ways. The forces of Mornhavon the Black, however, were preparing to attack, even as the Sacoridians finalized plans for their defense.

When his feet were once more on the ground, he walked back toward the dining hall where Duncan awaited him on the front step. He reflected that the Sacoridian camp was a sort of mirror image of the activity in Blackveil. On this side of the wall there were the sounds of hammers and saws, the crash of trees, and smoke rising from burning brush piles that spoke of an industrious scene. Unlike Blackveil, however, the air was sweetened by the scent of fresh cut lumber and no impenetrable mist blocked the sun.

He recalled his first visit to the wall five or six years ago now. The area had been untouched for centuries, and a team of stoneworkers, laborers, and a sub-unit of D’Yerian troops had bushwhacked their way to where Shawdell the Eletian had broken the wall. Theirs had been a stark camp. By day the stoneworkers and laborers quarried stone to repair the breach, while the soldiers cleared back the forest tree by tree and kept watch, should anything from Blackveil pass through the broken wall.

The repair work was completed with astonishing speed. Restless nights of listening to the screeches and growls of unknown creatures with only canvas tent walls to protect them inspired the stoneworkers to fill the breach with good D’Yerian granite as soon as possible.

Bob the gryphon, in his bobcat form, gulped down scraps the cooks left him a short distance from the dining hall. The personnel around the various wall encampments had mostly become accustomed to the existence and presence of the gryphons and appreciated their protection. In fact, several of the troops had taken to wearing gryphon badges and referred to themselves as Gryphon Company. Unlike Mister Whiskers and his brood, however, Bob tended to keep his distance from humans.

When Alton reached Duncan, he said, “Ready to go?”

“So soon? I’ve been having a delightful time with Lydia and Patty.”

The cooks. “I’m sure,” Alton said, “you have, but it’s time to go.” He grabbed Duncan’s pouch.

“Hey, easy with that,” Duncan said. “It’s only my entire existence.”

Alton slung the strap over his shoulder and strode toward the pickets where Night Hawk awaited, Duncan hurrying to catch up.

“None of us are going to exist if we just dawdle,” Alton said.

“Who’s dawdling?” Duncan demanded. “I was imparting my secrets for a proper brisket to the ladies.”

“I’m sure you were,” Alton muttered.

After he tacked Night Hawk, they set off. The day was passing quickly and it would be dark before they reached Tower of the Earth. He reined Night Hawk onto the rough road that had been established alongside the wall and left the encampment at the breach behind.

He had hoped that Duncan would vanish into his tempes stone for the journey. Instead, the great mage rode behind him on Night Hawk, or at least he presented the illusion of doing so, and filled Alton’s ears with his opinions of the physical attributes of the various females in the encampment.

“That Captain Quille—”

“Is married,” Alton snapped, “to a major in the heavy cavalry.”

Duncan sniffed. “Well, what could a mere major have over a great mage?”

“A real body.”

That shut him up.

The silence, Alton found, was worse than Duncan’s incessant chatter, for he heard whispers, indistinct voices murmuring from the wall. Cold air flowed across the back of his neck and made him shiver.

Very rarely did the guardians of the wall speak to him of their own accord. They did not trust him and never would because Mornhavon had almost tricked him into destroying the wall. He reined Night Hawk right over to it.

“Something wrong?” Duncan asked.

Alton placed his hand against the wall. A faint silver glow shimmered around it and faded. No runes appeared as they sometimes did to warn of the wall’s deterioration. However, a clarion voice spoke into his mind: Come in, Rider. You must come in.

He’d never been addressed so directly. Surprised, he tried to pull his hand from the wall, but it was . . . sticky, glued his palm to stone for a moment before he forced it loose. He rubbed his stinging hand and flexed his fingers. His skin remained intact and there appeared no harm had been done.

“That was strange,” he said.

“The wall seems to have something on its mind,” Duncan said. He pressed his own hand to the wall and it sank into granite, a frown of concentration on his face. After a moment, he pulled his hand out. “They do not know me on this side of the breach and refuse to speak to me.”

• • •

Night had fallen by the time they arrived at the small camp at Tower of the Earth with its welcoming fires and lantern light. They were intercepted by wary guards and led to the camp’s commander, Lieutenant Janes.

“Welcome,” the lieutenant told them. “This is a surprise. How may I serve, Lord Alton?”

“First, I need to take care of my horse,” Alton replied, “but if you have any supper left over, I’d be most obliged.”

The Rider assigned to the Tower of the Earth encampment, Peri Copperhaven, appeared beside the lieutenant and said, “I’ll take care of Night Hawk if you like.”

“Thanks. I am betting he’s as hungry as I am.”

“Not to worry,” Peri replied. “I’ll make him a nice mash.”

Alton grabbed Duncan’s pouch as Peri led Night Hawk away to the pickets. He knew very little about Peri, but that could be said about most of the Riders. He’d never met many of the new ones, and it was a long time since he had set foot in Sacor City. A few years, at least.

Janes led him to a fireside and ladled stew from a pot for him. Another soldier handed him a cup of ale. The lieutenant updated him while he ate.

“Nothing has come through the tower,” the lieutenant said, “and the orders are explicit about not allowing our Rider to enter it. Not that she’d want to.”

“Very dangerous,” Alton said between mouthfuls of stew, “but that’s why Duncan has come along, to take a look inside at the tower’s condition and how Haurris’ spells are holding up.”

Janes kept glancing at Duncan as though amazed to meet the great mage. Or, rather, the projection of a great mage.

“We’ll be most interested to hear what you find out,” Janes told him.

“Of course,” Duncan said from his seat, a stump he’d conjured for himself. He’d also conjured himself a cup of ale so as not to feel left out of the camp’s hospitality.

“We’ve kept watch, of course,” Janes said, “but have also kept busy building defenses just in case something does come through.”

Alton nodded in approval.

“And, of course, we’ve been converting our lean-to structures into cabins. Lean-tos and tents are not always the most comfortable shelters during winter.”

Alton understood that all too well.

The encampment maintained a complement of twenty-five members of the River Unit and one Green Rider, and they had accomplished much in the time since they’d been posted there.

“Well, Lieutenant,” Alton said, “you’d best prepare yourself for an influx of help. It’s about to get much busier around here.” He told him of the arrival of Captain Quille and her troops at the main encampment, as well as the news that even more were forthcoming.

“I’m very pleased to hear it,” Janes replied.

Duncan stood, stretched, and yawned. “All of this talk is making me drowsy. I believe I’ll retire so I can be ready to enter the tower on the morrow.”

He and his stump vanished. The nearby soldiers murmured in consternation.

“So strange,” Janes said. “Is he real?”

“It depends,” Alton replied, “on your definition of ‘real.’”

He was given a tiny cabin to sleep in, converted, it appeared, from a lean-to, that fit a cot, his gear, and a brazier, but little else. The coals in the brazier heated the small space wonderfully, and he snuggled into his bedroll and quickly drifted off.

“The guardians on this side of the breach are strange.”

Alton squawked and fell off the cot with a thunk. Duncan peered over the side at him.

“What are you doing down there?” the mage asked.

“Don’t do that again,” Alton said, fighting his blankets to regain his place on the cot.

“Do what?”

“Pop in like that. I was nearly asleep and you scared the scat out of me.” Alton growled and rolled onto his cot again.

“No need to get snippy,” Duncan replied. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Just thought you would want to know.”

Of course he didn’t, Alton thought darkly, and Duncan was clearly amused by it. “Strange in what way?”

“I haven’t been communicating with them directly, but they are out of rhythm, for one, and they’re quiet like, I don’t know. They won’t speak to me. It’s mistrust, but it is also like they are trying to hide something.”

“Hide something?” Alton murmured. “That is strange.” The guardians were single-minded entities, keeping rhythm and singing their song to maintain the strength of the wall. “We’ll have to check in with Garth and Ylaine to see if their mages have detected anything.” Garth was posted at Tower of the Trees, and Ylaine at Tower of the Sea.

“Perhaps we should investigate now rather than tomorrow?” Duncan suggested.

Alton considered. “No, I don’t think it’ll make a difference and I want to be rested before we attempt anything.”

Duncan looked disappointed.

“As for you, don’t wake me again unless it’s a dire emergency.”

“Yes, sir!” Duncan gave him a sarcastic salute and vanished.

Alton grumbled and turned onto his side. Only a year or two ago, he would have rushed to check out the irregularities Duncan had detected. Only time and experience had taught him that rushing was not always the safest or most productive approach.

Satisfied by his decision, he fell asleep in no time.

Only to have his dreams interlaced with that voice: Come, Rider. Come in here.

INTO THE WALL

“Ready?” Alton asked Duncan. “It was not very pretty last time I went in there.”

Morning had come all too soon with an icy wind out of the north. After a terrible night’s sleep, he’d had to force himself to crawl out of his toasty blankets.

“I was ready last night when you insisted on your beauty rest,” Duncan replied. “Now, don’t scowl at me, my lord. You can’t say I lack enthusiasm.”

Alton grunted and carried the mage’s pouch to the tower. At least he’d have a respite, however brief, from Duncan’s banter.

As they stood before the imposing facade of the tower, Duncan turned to him with an uncharacteristically solemn expression.

“Please do note,” Duncan said, “where you place my pouch so you can pull it back out if I don’t return in a couple hours. Chances are, I won’t be long, but it may require more investigation.”

“I understand,” Alton said.

With Duncan’s nod, Alton thrust the pouch through the wall of the tower and Duncan disappeared. He intended to pull his hand back quickly to prevent it from being zapped by one of Haurris’ old spells, but the granite resisted, closed around his forearm and firmed. He cried out in alarm and forcibly yanked his hand out before the granite totally hardened around it.

He opened and closed his fist. He’d scraped knuckles, but nothing worse. He rubbed his wrist, wondering what was going on with the guardians.

“Lord Alton?”

Peri approached with a steaming mug in each hand and halted a few yards from the wall.

He took a moment to compose himself after his fright. “It’s just Alton,” he told her. “I’m a Rider just like you.”

She nodded. “I’ve some kauv and it looks like you could use some.”

She had no idea, he thought. He strode over to her and accepted a mug with gratitude.

“The soldiers like it really strong,” she said. “It makes my toes curl, so I cut it with a liberal amount of honey.”

Alton sipped. It was strong, and very sweet, but the warmth felt good going down.

“So, the mage is in the tower?” she asked.

“Yeah. He doesn’t expect to be too long, but you never know. Tell me, have you ever felt anything from the tower or the wall?”

She paled. “Felt . . . anything?”

“Like hearing voices in your head, or feeling anything when you touch the wall?”

“I was explicitly ordered to stay away from the tower,” she replied.

“That order came from me, supported by the king. There are some nasty spells in there. But that doesn’t mean you don’t come in contact with the wall, touch it, or receive other sensations even when you don’t.”

She paled even more and stepped back. He was afraid she was going to faint.

“Peri?”

“No, no. I don’t go near the wall at all. I’ve no desire to.”

That was odd, he thought. It was the first impulse most people experienced when arriving at the wall. They couldn’t help but approach and run their hands over the rough, grainy ashlars. He mulled it over for a moment, trying to recall Peri’s special ability; then he noted the supple black leather gloves she wore.

“Your ability has to do with touch, doesn’t it?” he said.

She nodded. “Yes, sir, I mean, Alton. If I touch an object made by human hands, be it this mug I’m holding or the wall, I am often given visions or impressions about people who have made them or touched them before me. It’s not always pleasant. It’s overwhelming if there is violence or lots of emotion tied to the object. Otherwise, I can suppress the impressions to an extent, but it is fatiguing. The gloves help.” She held up one of her hands. “I wear them most of the time, even in summer, because they blunt many of the impressions, and you never know what an object has been through before you touch it.”

Now Alton understood. He could only imagine what touching the wall would do to her, how the guardians might overwhelm her, guardians who were sacrificed to strengthen the wall. He then wondered at Connly’s judgment in sending her instead of someone else for duty here. He thanked the gods his shielding ability was not so intrusive.

“To be honest,” he said, “I’m not inclined to touch the wall myself.”

“But you do,” she said.

“Yes, and it’s not usually a problem. I do so to connect with the guardians and to make sure all is well with them. Mostly I do it from within Tower of the Heavens. But last night and just now, it was strange.” He described to her what had happened and she visibly shuddered.

“Something like this happened to Dale a few years ago,” he explained. “The wall was unstable, going mad thanks to the influence of my cousin. The guardians trapped her in the wall and would have kept her had Merdigen not intervened.”

Peri’s eyes went round with horror. “I can’t even imagine.”

“Nor I, until now. I mean, I have had rough passage before, but the guardians haven’t tried to crush me.” He wasn’t absolutely sure that was what they intended, but it did remind him of Dale’s ordeal.

“What now?” she asked.

“We wait.”

And wait they did. As the sun traveled the sky and the cold gusts continued from the north, he grew edgy. Duncan had expected to be done with his business in the tower fairly quickly, but he had also told Alton it might take a while.

Alton paced, hoping against hope he would not have to reach through the tower wall to pull out the mage’s pouch to find out what had happened to him. He was not anxious to come in contact with the granite again. Fortunately he did not have to because a short time later, Duncan poked his head and shoulders through the wall.

“Thank the gods,” Alton murmured.

“Miss me?” Duncan asked. He glanced up at the sky. “Hmm. I lost track of time.”

“Well?” Alton said. “What’s it like in there?”

“Delightful,” Duncan said sarcastically. “Poor Haurris’ bones will have to be burned, but not just any fire will do. It’s no good to leave a mage’s bones lying around where anyone can pick them up.”

That was specious coming from Duncan whose leg bone traveled with him everywhere he went.

“I wouldn’t recommend anyone coming in just yet to retrieve them,” Duncan continued, “as his spells are still in effect, though I sense they are waning with the absence of his tempes stone.”

“It’s broken,” Alton said. “We removed it and the two halves are stored in Tower of the Heavens.”

“And therefore dead. His spells, however, are quite the master work. I’ve been examining them and ‘complex’ does not begin to describe them.”

“They almost killed me,” Alton muttered.

“Yes, they are brilliantly lethal.” There was a little too much enthusiasm in Duncan’s voice. Alton scowled.

“I observed the remains of the dark Sleeper, of course,” Duncan continued. “This tower with its web of spells would certainly be a challenge for anyone to pass through, and a good defense against the Sleepers. Alas, the spells were deteriorating in minuscule increments before my very eyes.”

“How much longer will they remain effective?” Alton asked.

“Difficult to say. I will continue my investigation and see if I can make an estimate. Such a terrible mess in there.” He tsked, sounding just like his father, Merdigen. “I’ll finish poking around in a bit,” he said as he receded back into the tower.

Duncan had no sooner left him when the voices came into Alton’s mind again: Rider, come in.

He froze and listened for the voice to speak again, but they did not.

“Everything all right? Did the mage find out anything useful?”

He was startled by Peri’s approach and tried to settle his nerves. “Not much, at least not yet. But I heard the voices again. They were the same and said, ‘Rider, come in.’”

“What are you going to do?”

Unconsciously he rubbed his wrist that had been caught in the wall earlier. “I’m not sure. I can’t commune with the guardians in the tower, so I’ll have to try against the wall. I suppose I could go to Tower of the Trees, but I don’t want to leave Duncan.”

“I could go,” Peri said, “and see if Garth and Mad Leaf have detected anything.”

He paused to consider. It was more than a day’s ride, less if she rode swiftly. Mad Leaf would have a direct connection to the wall and might be able to pick up on any unusual activity among the guardians. It was becoming clear to him, however, that he’d have to connect with the wall himself to see why he was being called.

“I’ll ask the lieutenant to send one of his people,” he finally replied. “I want you around in case anything happens when I try to reach the guardians.”

“What might happen?”

He saw the trepidation in her eyes. Her posture stiffened.

“I don’t know. But if something goes wrong, Duncan will need someone to pull his tempes stone from the tower, and you are the only Rider here. Then, if I am somehow incapacitated, you will have to ride to Captain Rennard to tell him.”

She trembled when he mentioned she might have to reach into the tower.

“His pouch is just inside, won’t take but a moment to pull it out,” he said, trying to reassure her. “I’ll mark the stones you need to reach through.”

To her credit, she didn’t refuse or complain, or say anything. She simply nodded.

After he showed Peri the place and marked it with soot from the watchfire, he informed Lieutenant Janes of his plan.

“I’ll send Private Olly,” the lieutenant said. “He’s a good horseman and can ride fast.”

When that was done, Alton sat by the fire and sipped some strong kauv, procrastinating. All around him, the soldiers went about their duties guarding, cutting back the forest, and training. Peri seemed to have taken on all the horse care duties, feeding, grooming, and cleaning tack.

“There isn’t much else for me to do,” she said during a break. “I can’t enter the tower, and they take care of everything else.” She swept her hand across the camp to indicate the busy soldiers. “I assist where I can.”

“I understand,” he replied. And he did. Life in a military setting involved a lot of waiting around. “And you know what?” he continued. “I’ve got to get to work myself. No more putting it off.” He decisively set his mug aside and stood. “You are clear on what to do in case there’s a problem?”

“Yes, sir,” Peri replied.

“It’s Alton.”

“Yes, sir . . . Yes, Alton.”

He smiled and marched to the wall to connect with the guardians as Peri watched after him.

Let’s see what you want, he thought. Possibly they wouldn’t even respond to him.

Hastily he slapped his palms against the granite before he could talk himself out of it. Ancient runes rippled across stone and vanished.

Rider, Rider . . . the voices sang out to him.

I am here, he replied. He sent his thoughts inward and they seemed to echo against the mineral and crystal formations of stone.

Rider, Rider . . . the voices crooned.

I am here. Annoyance tinged his words. What do you want?

You, the voices answered.

I’m—

Before he could finish, his hands sank into the wall and he was pulled inward. Several someones tried to hold onto him outside the wall, grasping his belt and feet to haul him out of the wall, but its grip was merciless and threatened to tear him apart. His would-be rescuers seemed to understand this and let go, and the wall swallowed all of him.

“This tisane ought to help,” Mender Doyle told Estral. “It’s actually a variation of my grandmother’s concoction. Give it a good steep and drink it morning and afternoon until the symptoms ease. Should help everything, including your sleep and throat.”

Estral accepted the small bundle of herbs. “A cure-all,” she whispered.

“Not quite,” he replied, “but it will help.”

A shriek from without the mending cabin made them both jump.

“What in the name of the heavens was that?” the mender asked.

“It sounded like Marc!”

Estral and Mender Doyle stepped outside into the night. Dale ran by and they fell in behind her.

As Estral had guessed, the shriek had come from Marc. Several of the camp’s denizens clustered around his cabin’s entryway.

“It’s Alton,” Marc cried from within.

Snapped into wakefulness at hearing Alton’s name, Estral pushed through the crowd and entered the cabin. Dale sat beside Marc on his cot, trying to console him.

“What? What about Alton?” Estral demanded.

Dale looked at her with an unreadable expression. Lantern light fell on Marc’s tear-streaked face.

“He’s in the wall,” Marc said. “I can feel it—it’s crushing him.”

THE AMAZING PERI

Peri Copperhaven paced before Tower of the Earth. Alton had disappeared into the wall and had not reappeared. It couldn’t be normal to be sucked into the wall like he’d been, and of course he had been concerned about what he perceived from the guardians. Per his instructions, she was supposed to pull Duncan’s pouch out of the tower.

The mage startled her by poking his head through the stone facade of the tower. “Don’t just stand there gaping, girl,” he said. “Something’s wrong—pull me out.”

Peri quavered. “But—”

“The guardians won’t tell me anything. They’re blocking me. Something has happened to the Deyer, yes?”

She nodded. “He was pulled into the wall.”

“His thoughts, or his physical form?”

“His whole body.”

Duncan froze for a moment, a look of horror crossing his features. “One moment.” He drew his head back into the tower. When he did not return immediately, she took to pacing again. It wasn’t long, however, before he poked his head back out. “No, they will not communicate with me. I can’t even pass a message down to Mad Leaf and the Garth fellow. I am completely blocked. You will have to pull out my pouch. I want to see where the Deyer went in, and to speak with the lieutenant.”

Peri gazed at the place Alton had marked on the stone showing where she should reach in to grab Duncan’s pouch. It wasn’t the idea of reaching into an unknown space that was the problem, though it brought on its own trepidation—there could be spiders or vipers or who-knew-what she couldn’t see. The problem was touching the stonework period.

“What are you waiting for?” Duncan demanded. “Time is of the essence.”

She showed him her gloved hands.

He stared hard at her, then blinked in surprise. “Oh, I see. No wonder you hesitate. But the fact remains that you must retrieve my pouch. I’m sorry.”

She nodded and knelt before the marked stone. She took a deep breath and attempted to summon the courage to come in contact with the stonework. She thought of the heroism of the First Rider, Lil Ambrioth, and the bravery of her fellow Riders, including Alton D’Yer, and how they carried out their duty no matter the cost. Who was she but a timid, bookish girl whose aunt and uncle had forced her to read fortunes at fairs by touching objects presented to her by marks? Her aunt and uncle called her “The Amazing Peri” and pocketed all the proceeds from her efforts. In private they called her a freak.

Her ability had emerged long before she answered the Rider call, allowing her aunt and uncle to force her to touch various objects that often had some level of grief attached to them. Widows and widowers brought her possessions of lost loved ones to read, such as specs or a brooch, and their grief would wash over her, as well as images of the decedent’s life and death. Worse still were objects of violence. Several times she’d been made to read the swords and daggers of soldiers who had seen combat, and, worse, the weapons of criminals.

The Rider call had only augmented her ability.

Hesitantly she stretched her hand out.

“That’s it,” Duncan said, “keep going.”

The warmth of latent sunshine radiated off stone and warmed her face. Her hand shook.

“Steady now,” Duncan said. “You can do it. You are brave and strong.”

She could hear the impatience behind his words of encouragement. It reminded her of her aunt and uncle cajoling her to work, and being belted afterward if she had balked.

Lil Ambrioth had never hesitated, she thought, and her fellow Riders rode into much worse danger, no matter their fear.

She plunged her fist into the tower wall. Sorrow and fear and pain thousands of times greater than anything she had ever touched before assaulted her, threatened to drown her. The glove on her hand shielded her not at all. Images of the sacrificed forced to kneel before blocks of stone slammed into her mind. Their heads were pushed against the stone and their throats slashed by men garbed in all black. She felt their righteous satisfaction, even their pleasure, at slaughtering magic users because they, too, had touched the stone blocks and left an impression that echoed across the Ages.

Blood pooled on granite and was absorbed. Every stone of the wall was an altar of sacrifice. Every stone was infused with the blood of any who had possessed a magical ability. They cried out in her mind, the young and old, housemaid and soldier, cobbler and mage.

And a Green Rider.

“Calmly, now,” came Duncan’s voice.

She hadn’t realized she’d been screaming.

“Calmly,” Duncan said. “You are almost there. Lower your hand and the pouch will be in your grasp.”

His voice lacked the impatience of before and reminded her of the present. She was not there with the sacrificed a thousand years ago. It was not her head pressed against the stone, nor her throat about to be slashed. She was shoulder deep in the wall, her hand patting around on the tower floor.

“To your right,” Duncan said. “No, your other right.”

She grabbed the pouch. Its texture was peaceful and brought to mind the beauty of tall trees, the chuckle of a stream. Duncan had mentioned it had been made by Eletians. She sensed slender and graceful hands weaving, sewing, and embroidering, and the intention of beauty and calm that had been infused into the creation of a sturdy, useful, and aesthetically pleasing pouch. It was not enough, however, to counteract the deluge of pain from the sacrificed.

She yanked the pouch out through the tower wall and that was the last she remembered.

“—and Rider Copperhaven has not yet regained consciousness,” Duncan told Estral.

To his credit, Estral thought, he appeared at least somewhat remorseful about what he’d made the Rider do.

She and Marc, and four soldiers Dale had assigned to escort them, had ridden through the night to reach the encampment at Tower of the Earth. Marc had asked Dale to come with them. Dale plainly wanted to, but decided she needed to stay on duty at the Tower of the Heavens so at least one Rider was able to enter the tower at need, and also, through Trace, be able to inform Connly of trouble and keep him updated.

Estral wanted to shake more information about Alton out of Duncan, but the magic was all illusion and there was no way to get her hands on him. She supposed she could shake his leg bone or tempes stone. Something to keep in mind.

Alas, one could not force information that was not there. She wanted to scream, but she had no voice. Marc, in contrast, was quite subdued, taking in the small encampment and the tower. He’d said little during their long, dark journey, which was fine with her because she’d so much noise in her head about what the hells was happening to the man she loved.

“Why would they do this to him?” It was frustrating when her voice failed her at such times and came out as a harsh whisper or dropped words as she spoke.

“I do not know,” Duncan replied. “It seems the guardians have some business with him.”

“He can’t survive in stone. It’s just not possible.”

“I just don’t know.” Duncan, too, was frustrated. “They’ve shut me out. They won’t communicate with me.”

“He’s all right,” Marc said in an off-handed manner.

“What?” Estral and Duncan said in unison.

“They haven’t hurt him,” Marc said. “They kinda did in the beginning because they misjudged his body, but now they want . . . I dunno. To show him something? But he’s all right.”

“That’s more than I could get,” Duncan said.

Estral’s shoulders sagged in relief. She was both exhausted and quivering with nervous energy.

“Can you talk with them?” Duncan asked Marc.

“Not really, but they keep telling me to come to them.”

“Hmm,” Duncan replied.

Lieutenant Janes approached. “My lady, perhaps you’d care to sit by the fire with some tea?”

“No, we need to figure out how to rescue Alton.”

“I think perhaps with rest,” Duncan said, “we could attack the problem with fresh minds.”

Estral was about to argue when Marc said, in a very small voice, “I could go—”

“No,” she said. “We can’t take the risk of losing you, too.”

“I agree with Lady Fiori,” Lieutenant Janes said. “Do not go near the wall.”

Duncan, notably, said nothing.

Marc shrugged and ambled over to the fire and sat on a stump.

“I think you should follow the example of Lord Marc, my lady,” the lieutenant said. “Rest by the fire. My people are arranging tents for you.”

She sighed and joined Marc, and accepted a mug of tea from a soldier. It turned out to be heartening and the heat of the fire welcome, but she kept glancing over her shoulder at the wall that entombed Alton. She fought herself not to run to it and attempt to reach the guardians herself, but if there was one thing she had learned from traveling with Karigan in the north last winter, attempting to take matters into her own hands without a plan was foolish and a good way to get herself or someone else hurt, thus complicating the situation. Her behavior had caused Karigan great harm for which she had never forgiven herself, and she doubted she ever would.

And now she had even more reason not to get into trouble.

That all said, the guardians did not communicate with her, anyway. At least, not since she had lost her voice.

“I’ll keep watch on the wall,” Duncan said, “so you can get some rest.” He was not his usual jocular self. For once his mien fit the situation. “I’ll keep trying to communicate with the guardians, and if there are any breakthroughs or changes, I’ll let you know.”

Estral did not think she could sleep, but she didn’t know what else to do. She could only hope that Alton would come out of this safely. It was not so long ago she had almost lost him to the sword of a dark Sleeper, and she was not about to lose him now.

Especially now.

AWAITING JUDGMENT

Karigan, still on light duty, helped Tegan with scheduling and managing the Riders. It helped keep her mind off her forthcoming day in court. One afternoon, after an errand in heavy snowfall, Megan dramatically straggled into the common room, balls of snow melting in her trail, and fell into a chair.

“Why is this my life?” she demanded.

Other Riders who’d also carried messages in the inclement weather cast her irritated glances.

“If only I could float my way around,” she grumbled.

“Half the city would think you a sorceress and come after you with pitchforks,” Gil said.

“I know, I know. Don’t use your ability in public or frivolously.” She pouted. “But I like frivolous things.”

“The wind might blow you to the next province,” Daro told her, “and then you’d pass out in the snow.”

Megan sighed. “It is useless to have an ability that is so useless.”

“Your ability to float was not so useless during the war with Second Empire,” Karigan reminded her. “In fact, it was very important.”

Megan looked astonished to hear anyone say something positive about her. “Well, that’s true,” she said, brightening.

Karigan did her best to raise the spirits of the Riders working through a rough winter. She served them cups of creamy hot tea and kauv, meat rolls, muffins, and butter tarts from the kitchens.

“At least the daylight is getting longer,” Karigan told Tegan later that afternoon. “Day of Aeryon will be here before we know it.”

“I am sensing a major blizzard before winter’s end,” Tegan replied, “and we’ll get snow into spring as always. The good thing is that it melts faster.”

The next day as Karigan cut through the inner castle gardens, chickadees and nuthatches hopped among the snowy branches of shrubbery.

She chanced upon Estora standing still as a statue wrapped in a cloak lined with ermine, her hood loosely draped upon her head, her cheeks pink with the cold. Birds alighted on her hand and wrist to take seed that was cupped in her palm. She seemed a myth come to life, a snow queen amid her frosty domain of fanciful clumps and bumps of snow that concealed the gardens. Her silent guardians in black stood at a discreet distance and did not move to intercept Karigan.

She decided to divert her path so as not to disturb Estora, but the statue came to life.

“Karigan,” Estora said, “do not go away.”

Karigan halted and bowed. “I did not wish to bother you.”

“I am taking in the fresh air,” Estora said. “You are not bothering me.” When her hand was free of birds, she tossed the remaining seed to the snow.

“How are you?” Karigan asked.

“Perfectly well, unless you count the children teething. Their nurses do their best to ease them, but it is difficult to hear their crying.”

“So, it’s not just fresh air you need?”

Estora gave her a rueful look. “The silence is wonderful. It is so peaceful, and I can stand here and imagine the reawakening of the gardens. Truth be told, it’s almost as if I can feel the roots in the soil restless to grow.”

“Will it be vegetable gardens again?” Karigan asked.

“Mostly, until the threat of Mornhavon has passed.”

Karigan noted there was no “if” in her statement.

“I’ve asked the gardeners to restore a small section this spring,” Estora continued. “Even in the worst of times, we require beauty to remind us of what we fight for.”

Karigan opened her mouth to speak when an episode of vertigo swept her among the clouds and presented her with a dizzying eagle’s view of the gardens. They were verdant and in full bloom, but a darkness appeared in a corner and grew and grew. The dark minions of Mornhavon spilled into the gardens, trampling, hacking, and burning the greenery.

Her view expanded to include the castle and its grounds. The enemy swarmed over the walls and onto walkways where they vastly outnumbered the defenders. The sheer mass of them swallowed soldiers and civilians alike, and spread like a voracious disease as they pushed into the castle, and even upon its roof. Smoke roiled from windows. The castle courtyard was completely black.

The vision faded just as quickly as it had come, and she plummeted Earthward and would have fallen to her knees if strong hands had not caught her. After another wave of dizziness, she blinked in the daylight and glare of snow, and found Estora, Travis, and Erin gazing at her in concern. Or, at least Estora did. The Weapons were unreadable.

Estora clutched her mittened hands. “Are you with us?”

“Y-yes. I can stand on my own now, thanks.”

The Weapons let her go, hovered a moment to make sure she didn’t fall face-first into the snow, then moved to the distance. Estora, however, still gripped her hands.

“You began to slip away,” Estora said. “Not so much as before, but you began to fade away.”

“I thought I was done with these episodes.” Karigan glanced around the courtyard gardens to reassure herself all was well. To her relief, no darkness, no shadows, defiled them.

“What did you see?”

Karigan hesitated, not wishing to relive the scene or cause Estora concern, but this was not the sort of thing one kept to herself. It was, she thought, significant. She described it to Estora, and in the light of day, in the chill air, it seemed more a bad dream than what might actually be a vision of what could be. She almost felt silly about it, but not entirely.

“I don’t know if it’s a true vision, or a future vision,” she concluded, “but it’s what I was shown. My abilities are not along the lines of foretelling the future.”

“Still,” Estora said, “Zachary must be told. If it is a foretelling, we are warned to redouble our efforts to prepare for Mornhavon’s invasion. Our king is in meetings with the Rhovan embassy all day, but I’ll tell him in the evening.”

The city bell rang the hour.

“Oh, no,” Karigan said. “I must run—I’ve a meeting myself with Masters Winston and Chester.”

“Your court day is tomorrow, yes?”

“It is.”

“Then I wish you all the luck.” Estora squeezed her hands and then released them.

Whatever the outcome of her court case, Karigan thought as she rushed off, it would be meaningless in the scheme of the world if her vision came true.

• • •

That night, Karigan took care of her bedtime ablutions and crawled under the covers. She twisted and turned for some time, plagued by the what-ifs of her court case. Eventually she drifted off, but abruptly woke feeling like she was not alone. A cold sweat made her shiver. Ghost Kitty perched on her belly with his fur standing on end and growled into the dark.

She sensed no ghosts and tried to tell herself it was nothing, and had almost convinced herself it was so when a dim figure in gray appeared in the glowing coals of her hearth.

“You did not think you were so easily free of me, did you?” asked Shawdell the Eletian.

SHAWDELL’S PROPOSAL

Karigan tore off her covers and leaped to her feet and unsheathed her saber from where it hung on her headboard. Ghost Kitty launched from the bed with a yowl and darted into hiding.

Shawdell, who appeared little more than a drifting phantom, gave a breathy laugh. “You think your steel can touch me?”

She sprang forward and slashed her blade through him, but he was of no more substance than the air. As her blade came to rest, her chamber wavered like a candle flame, and she stumbled with sudden vertigo. Gray light filled her fireplace and spun in a dizzying vortex that formed a tunnel-like passage to a ballroom. The discordant notes of the dark ball came to her in a faint drone as though from beneath water.

One-two-three, one-two-three

The lulling rhythm of the dance filled her like a fever. She dropped her sword and clapped her hands over her ears, but even that would not drive the music from her mind.

“As you can see,” Shawdell said in a silken whisper, “your blade did me no harm.”

She resisted the music as much as she could and glared at him. “I was not going to take your word for it.”

He floated there, regarding her from beneath his hood.

“Why are you here?” she demanded.

“I thought, perhaps, we could resume the dance.”

She dimly recalled him tormenting her, waiting for the avatar’s armor to fail completely so he could obtain power over her and her mirror eye. She glanced through the vortex tunnel in her fireplace into the ballroom, distant, and yet so close.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“The last time we were together,” he said, “I offered you refreshment, to taste the power of the universe.”

The horror of that scene came back to her of her dead enemies feeding on the corpse of Salvistar.

Shawdell stretched his hand out, and a large, beating heart materialized and floated above it. It pulsed in her ears with the rhythm of the dance. It threatened to whirl her away into the madness of the dark ball.

No, no, no. She fought it with all she had, and when she mastered herself once more, she observed that the tunnel to the ballroom had contracted just the slightest bit.

“Won’t you try just a morsal?”

His voice pulled at her, beguiled her, suggesting great reward, should she just taste of it.

“I will not.” She wanted nothing he offered.

“Perhaps if it looked more appealing?” The heart turned into a tray of Dragon Droppings. “This is a treat you enjoy, is it not?”

Dragon Droppings were, indeed, her favorite, but they, too, pulsed. They smelled of chocolate and blood, and she nearly gagged in revulsion.

“Just one,” he cajoled. “Just one and the universe is yours.”

“Why are you so eager to give me such power?”

To her relief, the Dragon Droppings vanished and he lowered his hand to his side.

“You should know that Mornhavon plans to hunt you down. He wishes to turn you. To turn you into a dark servant, his slave. He will train you to obey his every command. He will extinguish your light, corrupt you.” Shadows closed in and her chamber shrank, suffocated her. She gasped for a breath of air as he continued relentlessly on. “Do you think you know pain? Torture? You haven’t even begun to understand what pain is, no matter the scars you bear. He will leave just enough of who you are so that you are fully cognizant of the horrors he will force you to visit upon all those you love. You will grieve for them even as you destroy them. It will torment you as nothing has before, and bring you such pleasure that all you will want is to do it again and again.”

Such dreadful words spoken in so lovely a voice. She wanted to crumple to the floor and weep.

“Soon,” he said with grim finality, “you will be fully his and the only ecstasy in your life will be to serve him and receive the cruelty he inflicts upon you. You will beg him for more.”

“No,” she whispered.

“You are fortunate he is distracted at the moment, for he is building his army to invade this realm. However, his spies will still seek you. Taking you and making you his servant would be, to his mind, just compensation for the betrayal of your ancestor, Hadriax el Fex. But that is not all. Holding you in thrall would give him access to your exceptional eye and your ability to cross thresholds.”

She had known Mornhavon wished to capture her; after all, the wraiths had tried to take her to Blackveil. Yet hearing the consequences of falling into his hands stated so baldly terrified her.

“In the end,” Shawdell said, “you would be one of his wraiths, a useful puppet made to serve him.”

She took a deep breath to compose herself and fought to keep the tremor out of her voice. “Your motives are no better than Mornhavon’s.”

“Ah, but in this you are wrong. Mornhavon is shortsighted, and I am not.” Here, the dread faded from his voice, and his manner of speech turned compelling, almost as lyrical as a song. “You would not be my servant for we would work in concert as partners—equals. As for my personal motives? Perhaps the restoration of what has been broken.” He rested his hand of shattered glass upon his chest to indicate himself. “That, however, is but a minor thing. If we worked together, we could force Mornhavon into nonexistence. The nations of the Eletians could once more grow and prosper, as would Sacoridia. Think of it! Magic would once more flow free across the lands and spawn great works of architecture, art, peaceful governance.”

His words painted visions of spiraling towers that rose into the sky amid lush forests, birds taking flight, and sunshine glinting on a broad waterfall. It reminded her of what the grandeur of Argenthyne must have been like before Mornhavon conquered it.

“Do you see?” he continued. “We can defeat Mornhavon and prevent the apocalyptic nightmare his victory would ensure. We can save all the lands and secure their future.”

Yes, she could see. So reasonable was his proposal, so irresistible was his silken tongue, and his excitement so palpable, she found herself eager to begin. Immediately they could end the scourge of Mornhavon and bring magic into the world once more. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Together they would be a powerful force to—

She caught herself. So lulled by his words and the magic in his voice was she, he had nearly ensnared her in his trap. Cobwebs filled her head. She rubbed her eyes as if to erase the visions he’d given her.

“It’s a pretty picture,” she said. “But that kind of power is not for me or any mortal, or any Eletian. It’s why I shattered the looking mask in the first place. It will taint anyone who tries to take it.”

He pulled back his hood. The mosaic of his face glittered in anger. “So, you would just stand there as Mornhavon’s forces rip through your lands and destroy your people? Do you not know that such power can be used for good?”

“Any power can corrupt and be corrupted,” she said, “and I hardly think your intentions are so innocent or noble. Sacoridia is stronger without what you propose. We will face whatever is to come.”

“I was wrong.” Now his voice turned scathing, the spell of beauty he’d wrought broken. “You are no grown woman, but a foolish, foolish girl. With your decision, you put your people and yourself at risk. You’ve no idea the strength Mornhavon will draw on when he invades. You’ve no idea the size of the army he is amassing. I offer a gift you could use to crush him, and yet you refuse. You would condemn your land to become no more than a charred wasteland for Blackveil’s monsters to infest.”

“No,” she said, but she felt less sure. He sowed doubt and fear in her with an image of her home far darker than that of even the future she had visited with its harsh empire. Having the power to end Mornhavon and avert disaster was tempting. Too tempting. But she knew instinctively that whatever Shawdell said about sharing power, of being partners, he meant to use her to bend the universe to his will, an outcome worse than anything even Mornhavon could conjure. He could go so far as to unravel all existence. After all, Mornhavon threatened all the lands now because it was Shawdell who had broken the D’Yer Wall.

“There will come a time, Dama Cearing Asai’riel a’ Santanara, my aunt, when you will wish you willingly accepted my offer of partnership, for it would be far preferable to the torment Mornhavon the Black will bring you and your land.”

“I am not your aunt,” she retorted in disgust. “You are a deceiver and a manipulator, and we are in no way associated except as enemies. You have received my answer, and you are nothing but a formless gray phantom who cannot do anything about it.”

“Truly? How quickly you forget.”

He drifted to her washstand, lifted the pitcher, and dropped it. It smashed on the floor and water flowed between the cracks of the flagstone. “You speak boldly, but naively, Karigan Galadheon, and there will come a time . . .” Even as he and the tunnel to the ballroom vanished, his words echoed in her mind. There will come a time.

Karigan’s legs gave out beneath her and she dropped to her knees gasping for breath. Mara, Tegan, and Daro burst into her room.

“Karigan?” Mara lit a candle with a touch. “What’s going on? We heard a crash.”

Daro knelt beside her. “Karigan, you’re shaking.”

They helped her to her bed and wrapped her in a blanket.

“What happened to the pitcher?” Tegan said, over by the washstand.

Karigan described Shawdell’s visit to the three Riders.

“The king will have to be informed,” Mara said. “But don’t worry,” she quickly added. “I’ll handle it.”

Thank goodness, Karigan thought. She didn’t think she could face him just now.

More sleepy Riders crowded into her doorway to find out what was going on. Tegan herded them back to bed while Daro cleaned up the remains of the pitcher and mopped the floor with cloths.

“Try to get some sleep,” Mara told her. “I know it won’t be easy. I’ll stay with you if you like.”

“Not necessary,” Karigan replied. “I don’t think he’ll be back. Not tonight, at any rate.”

She’d been sorely tempted to take Mara up on her offer. She tried to sleep, or at least rest, but all she could hear in her mind was Shawdell’s haunting voice: There will come a time, backed by the strains of the dark ball’s orchestra.

She only fell asleep after Ghost Kitty came out of hiding and curled up on the pillow beside her head and soothed her with his rumbling purrs.

THE VEILED LADY

Interested persons filled the courtroom to witness the judgment of Karigan’s crimes. Mostly merchant folk had assembled to see the great Clan G’ladheon brought low. A large contingent sat on Clan Suttley’s side, and Celesta sat proudly in the complainant’s chair with her hand swathed in bandages. Karigan glowered for it was all for show. She hadn’t inflicted that much damage to Celesta’s hand. At worst, she’d been bruised.

Everyone took their seats with the judge’s arrival, and the case was introduced. Master Winston was about to begin speaking on behalf of her defense when a clerk hurried to the judge’s high desk and whispered into her ear, then handed her a paper. The judge examined it, then eyed Karigan through her specs. Finally she turned her stern gaze upon Celesta.

“What’s going on?” Karigan asked Master Chester.

“I haven’t the faintest,” he replied.

“I have studied this case,” the judge said at last, “as I do all cases that come into my court. I will render judgment today with the power vested in me by His Majesty the King, but the case will not be argued.”

An uproar among the onlookers filled the room.

“This is unusual,” Master Chester said. “Not unheard of, but most unusual.”

“But what can it mean?” she asked. How could the judge render a decision without hearing the case?

“Be prepared,” Master Chester replied. “It’s either very good, or very bad.”

She was not reassured.

Bailiffs banged the butts of their staves on the floor and called for order. When the ruckus settled down, the judge said, “The accused and her accuser will approach.”

Karigan left her seat with trepidation. Winston and Chester stood to either side of her, Celesta standing with her own counsel, a smug expression on her face. Karigan wondered if she had bribed the judge. If so, Karigan and her clan were in very dire trouble.

The judge again gazed down at them through her specs. “There is no question that Sub-chief G’ladheon is guilty of inciting a brawl at the merchants guild house and causing both bodily injury and material damage.”

Karigan’s heart sank. She was going back to jail.

The Suttley supporters broke out in cheers. Celesta’s expression was triumphant. In one ill-considered decision to go to the guild house while angry and grieving, Karigan had doomed herself and her clan. She bowed her head, thinking about how she had ruined the lives of those who depended on the clan for work—all the drovers and dock workers, the caravanners and sailors, and all the suppliers and shopkeepers. Worst of all was imagining how disappointed her father and aunts would be in her. What would Aunt Stace say, were she still alive? And, oh, gods, her fellow Riders? Colonel Mapstone? And worst of all, Zachary. She had let everyone down.

When the bailiffs restored order once more, the judge asked her, “Sub-chief, do you have anything to say regarding your actions?”

“Stay strong,” Winston whispered. “Speak from your heart.”

Karigan stepped forward and cleared her throat. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Go ahead.”

Karigan turned first to the Suttley side of the chamber. Many were casual spectators looking for entertainment. Members of the Suttley crew, however, had a feral look in their eyes with victory at hand and the downfall of Clan G’ladheon’s might.

“I formally apologize to the merchants guild, its triumvirate, and those who were injured in the incident.” Somehow, she kept her voice steady. “I expect no forgiveness.”

“You won’t get any,” a Suttley shouted.

The bailiffs banged their staves and the judge said, “Any further outbursts and you will be removed. Continue, Sub-chief.”

“I will face whatever punishment is levied upon me without protest,” Karigan said.

Next, she turned to the G’ladheon side of the chamber where a few clan members, employees, and friends of the clan sat, including Robert. And her grandfather. She scowled to see him there, probably amused out of spite that his son’s ventures had come to ruin.

A stylishly attired lady who cut a fine silhouette and was impossible to miss stood in the far back. She wore a feathered hat with a tulle veil draped across her face. Karigan could not think of who she might be. A distant cousin in the middle row wept, and a vendor held his head in his hands. They all knew this was the end of Clan G’ladheon.

“I have let you all down,” she said. “I was never suited to be Sub-chief. I accept entirely all the blame for my actions. Please do not blame my aunts for they were burdened with their sister’s illness and . . .” Here her voice cracked. “Her passing. They were taken advantage of by an unscrupulous accountant and found out only when it was too late. It is my hope he will face justice for his misdeeds.”

She glanced at Celesta, whose expression was hard as she waited to hear more of what Karigan had to say about the “unscrupulous accountant.” Celesta was to be disappointed as Karigan was advised by Inspector Chief Wheatland to say no more of him to keep Celesta from guessing the constabulary were on to her.

She took a deep breath before continuing. “Until my father’s return from his trading mission, I place what is left of the clan’s business affairs in the capable hands of Robert Hollingdale.”

“Madam?” he said in surprise.

“I name you sub-chief in my stead,” she said, and removed her clan ring, seals, and medallion, and handed them to Chester, who, in turn, passed them to Robert.

Celesta laughed as if at a great joke. Karigan did her best to put her foe out of her mind.

Robert gazed at the items in his hands. “I—I can’t.”

“You will, and are, from this moment forward.” She did not think he would thank her for passing all the clan’s woes to him, but suddenly, despite the judge’s pronouncement of her guilt, she felt so light, so free, as though she had wings to launch her into the air. She could breathe. She had not realized how heavily the responsibility had weighed on her, how hard it had been to divide her life in two as Rider and merchant, yet bearing the weight of each in full.

Tired, she thought. She was tired, but elated.

Before Robert could lodge further protest, she turned back to the judge. “I present myself to the court for whatever punishment is rendered, Your Grace.”

Celesta mockingly applauded without apparent pain to her bandaged hand. “Quite the little drama you put on, Karigan. Perhaps you can earn a living as a player at the Royal Majestic when your clan dissolves. Oh, wait, you’ll be going to jail first.”

“Silence,” the judge snapped. “I will have silence for sentencing.”

As the judge wished, everyone quieted, and the chamber grew still and tense, the silence broken only by someone coughing. Anticipation gleamed in Celesta’s eyes.

“Sub-chief,” the judge continued, “it has come to my attention that your fighting skills come from hard training and are in demand by the Crown, and may be needed very soon. I have also been informed that you served a certain amount of time in jail already and suffered greatly as a result. Likewise, it is known that you have served the realm with several courageous acts, not least of all leading many citizens to safety when the lower city was aflame during the conflict with Second Empire. This, combined with confirmation from His Majesty that you have been faithfully complying with the punishment he personally instituted as a remedy for your offenses, moderates your sentence. I see no need for you to serve further jail time.”

Karigan’s relief was immense. Zachary said he could not interfere in the case directly, yet he had found a way that appeared entirely reasonable, and she loved him for it.

As she stood in quiet reflection, the G’ladheon side of the room cheered while the Suttley side jumped to their feet in protest. The bailiffs banged their staves for order and had to remove the most belligerent members of the audience to prevent fist fights from breaking out. Others were forced back to their seats. A fight at her sentencing, Karigan thought, would have been most ironic.

“I am not finished with sentencing,” the judge said. “Any further interruptions and I will command my bailiffs to arrest the disorderly.”

Karigan’s relief faded and she stood up straight. She hadn’t finished with sentencing? What could be next?

The chamber once more settled down, the judge clasped her hands upon the high desk. “Sub-chief, you are, as I said, a highly trained fighter in service to our king and queen, a swordmaster, even. You put those skills on display in the merchants guild house causing numerous injuries among its attendants and the constabulary, and damaged the guild house, itself. Both guild and constabulary have enumerated the cost of lost pay for the injured, and payment to hire replacements while the injured recuperate. The guild has also enumerated the costs of repair and replacement of furnishings.”

A sick feeling gurgled in Karigan’s belly.

“Sub-chief,” the judge continued, “you are endowed with fighting skills and the trust of our sovereign, as well as the guild. When you used those skills in the guild house instead of employing civil discourse, you betrayed that trust. Actions have consequences, some of which you’ve already paid for, and are paying for, but it is my judgment that further redress is required. I order you to pay a fine of ten thousand gold crowns.”

Karigan wilted. There was no way to pay off a fine like that unless the clan sold absolutely everything including the G’ladheon estate.

“However,” the judge continued as babbling broke out, “because of recent services you’ve rendered on behalf of the constabulary, I am reducing the fine to six thousand to be disbursed to the injured parties. If the fine is not paid in full in one month’s time, however, the accused will be imprisoned, no matter the needs for her services. This is my final judgment.”

The chamber erupted once more. Celesta cried out that the reduction of the fine was unfair. Winston and Chester talked at Karigan and to one another. She wondered, even with the reduction, how on Earth she was going to pay the fine. Even if they sold everything, it took time, and a month would not be nearly enough.

“Poor Karigan,” said a voice from behind.

The stylish woman in the veil now approached.

“Got yourself into a wee pickle,” the woman said. Her voice and manner were slightly familiar, but Karigan could not place her. The woman shook her head with a Tsk, tsk, and proceeded up the aisle, hips swaying, toward the judge’s high desk.

What the hells? Karigan wondered.

The veiled lady dropped a large purse onto the desk with a pronounced thunk and ring of coins that caught the attention of the excited spectators.

“This should cover the fine,” the woman said.

The judge gazed at the purse. “We will see.” She motioned a bailiff over to begin counting the coins.

“Who—?” Karigan began when the woman turned to her. “Why?”

“The usual response is ‘thank you,’” the woman said, “but I can see you have been distressed and it might not be the first words that occur to you. Frankly, I am a little piqued that you don’t remember me.”

Karigan stood in shock as the woman lifted her veil. It had been some time since she’d last seen her, but recognition now dawned on her.

“Tru- Tru- Trudy?”

“Oh, honey, you are certainly having trouble with words. Perhaps I can offer other ways, besides coins, to alleviate your distress.”

Karigan’s cheeks burned as she stared in disbelief at the courtesan, Trudy, of the Golden Rudder, standing before her.

AN UNEXPECTED SAVIOR

“What are you doing here?” Karigan demanded.

Trudy looked her up and down. “A lady has a right to travel, hasn’t she?”

“Well, uh, yes, but I mean . . .”

“You sent Silva a letter about Garden House, yes?”

Karigan nodded. So disconcerted was she by Trudy’s surprise appearance, that she barely noticed all the people milling about the courtroom in the aftermath of her sentencing.

“Silva,” Trudy continued, “asked if I might look in on Garden House to ensure they had the resources they need. So, I am actually traveling to Corsa with a stop in Sacor City on the way. Inspector Wheatland, incidentally, was pleased to have me in town to answer questions about Croft. What fun it was drawing information out of that little man when he was our guest at the Rudder. And of course I was distressed to hear of the trouble my poor Karigan has found herself in.”

The clink of coins being stacked on the judge’s desk was audible over the murmur of people around them.

“The fine,” Karigan said. “I will reimburse you as soon as—”

“Tut.” Trudy placed a finger across Karigan’s lips. “I will not hear of it.”

Karigan glanced at the high desk. The judge and bailiff had finished counting the coins and were returning them to the purse. The judge nodded to Trudy in satisfaction.

“It’s too much,” Karigan said. “I must—”

“No,” Trudy interrupted. “It is a gift. Some of it is the currency we squeezed out of Croft, meaning it was likely from your own clan’s coffers. As for the rest? I believe I once told you how very kind and generous your father was to us at the Golden Rudder.”

Karigan nodded.

“When I expressed interest in investing, he gifted me with a gold coin and taught me what to look for in a good investment. And so, I began to invest my tips. A little here, a little there.” She leaned toward Karigan. They stood cheek to cheek, almost touching. Karigan’s face burned as she inhaled a light scented perfume. She knew Trudy was quite aware of how flirtation impaired her equilibrium and proceeded accordingly. “I am very wealthy,” Trudy said. “Very. River shipping has proven lucrative for me. Most investors want to go for the large and glorious sailing ships that ply the oceans to exotic ports, but they are so prone to disaster. So I invested in humble river cogs and earned a fortune.” She eased back and Karigan felt she could finally breathe again. “Your father,” Trudy said, “made it all possible, and the fine is paltry repayment for his kindness and guidance. I am now teaching the other ladies as he once taught me and will do the same for those unfortunate souls who have sought refuge at Garden House. Meanwhile, I remain connected with Silva and the Rudder because it pleases me.”

“That—that’s amazing,” Karigan said. “I thank you, and my father will certainly be told of your generosity.”

Trudy smiled. “I expect to be doing business with Clan G’ladheon and will speak with him myself when he returns from his voyage. I am opening a lady’s dress shop in Corsa, and I will need the very best materials your clan can provide.”

“I’m afraid to say we’ve no stock at the moment,” Karigan said, “or at least not much, and no way of providing you with what you’ll need. Times have been difficult.”

“And so I’ve become quite aware. I will be having some words with the new sub-chief, and perhaps we can begin to turn things around.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Karigan replied. “I am truly overwhelmed.”

“You need not say a thing.” Trudy cupped Karigan’s chin in her hand and gazed hard at her. “The eyepatch gives you a wild look, I think. If you ever do wish to make a form of repayment, come find me.”

Again, Karigan’s face burned and she cleared her throat.

Trudy laughed and tapped her nose. “Stay out of trouble, my lovely.”

With that, the skirts of Trudy’s dress brushed against Karigan’s legs as she turned to make her way toward Robert. Karigan fanned her face and thought to sit down when Master Chester approached. He watched after Trudy.

“Who is that magnificent lady?” he asked in awe.

“Uh, um, a friend of the family,” Karigan replied, feeling all kinds of discombobulated.

“I should say. Not just anyone would cover a fine like that for even the best of friends. Very generous of her. Very generous, indeed.”

Master Winston joined them just then. “Yes, and the judge has signaled that your fine is paid in full and accepted by the court. The judge will see that the funds are properly distributed.”

Karigan thanked the gentlemen for their assistance.

“Our pleasure,” Master Chester said. “You did most of the hard work yourself, and we see why the king values you so highly. That note the judge received was from him and explained who you are and what you’ve done for the realm. The judge was able to take these things into consideration when she reached judgment.”

Of course he sent the note, she thought. A rush of warmth came with the knowledge he had intervened on her behalf, but added to her confusion over their relationship and the risk he took by favoring her in such a way.

The two law speakers moved on to converse with others. The crowd had thinned considerably, and she gazed about in search of her grandfather, but he was nowhere to be seen. She shrugged. It was probably for the better.

“Well, well, so you managed to avoid jail this time. I heard your last time behind bars was a little rough.”

Karigan gritted her teeth before she turned to face Celesta Suttley. “I didn’t die, if that is what you were hoping.”

“A pity. It would have made Stevic very sad. Just imagine him coming home to his business and clan in ruins, and his sister and daughter dead. Not that he has a home to return to.”

Anger flared in Karigan with such intensity that she had to force herself to not do worse this time to Celesta. Only her recent experience of having been jailed and prosecuted, and not wanting to go through that again, cooled her ire. “What do you mean he hasn’t a home?” she demanded.

“You haven’t heard?” Celesta was enjoying herself far too much. She looked a snake ready to snatch a mouse.

“What haven’t I heard?” Karigan asked.

Celesta’s smug expression only deepened. “Why, your aunts sold Stevic’s estate in Corsa. The house, the land, the horses, everything. Said they had debts to settle.”

“You’re lying. They’d never do that.”

“Surprised?” Celesta asked with a laugh.

“They would have told me,” Karigan replied. “Consulted with me.”

“Apparently not.” Celesta’s smile was not just smug, but crimped with evil.

Karigan took a deep breath to steady her reaction for she’d no desire to give Celesta the satisfaction of seeing her rage. She drew on the coolness that was her shadow self, and with uttermost calm said, “I hope they got a decent price for it.”

Celesta’s amusement faltered when she did not receive a stronger reaction. “A fair enough deal, I daresay. Your Aunt Gretta is a surprisingly shrewd negotiator. And I am no monster.”

Now Karigan smiled, a smile made of ice. “Yes, she is. Are we done here, or do you have more gloating to do?”

“Done,” Celesta said, “and so is Clan G’ladheon.”

Karigan watched her flounce her way out of the building. Once Inspector Wheatland finished building her case against Clan Suttley and came forward with charges, Celesta would be sorry she ever dared malign Clan G’ladheon. It did little, however, to ameliorate Karigan’s fury over the loss of the home she had grown up in and that contained so many cherished memories. But a house was, after all, just a house, and her more immediate concern was for her aunts. She interrupted Trudy and Robert’s conversation and told them what Celesta had said.

“She’s a right bitch.” Trudy’s salty tone belied her refined manner and glamorous appearance. It was more the Trudy Karigan remembered.

She agreed whole-heartedly with Trudy’s assessment of Celesta. “Would you mind terribly looking in on my aunts when you’re in Corsa? They’ve just lost their eldest sister, my Aunt Stace.” Her voice quavered as she spoke the last.

“I will do better than that,” Trudy replied. “I will make sure they are comfortably resituated. I’ll keep an eye on them.”

Karigan was so relieved she hugged Trudy.

“Oh, I like this,” Trudy whispered.

Karigan’s cheeks warmed as they parted.

“I will see what can be done from here,” Robert said. “I can examine the sale papers and ensure your aunts are properly compensated.”

“Thank you, Sub-chief,” she said.

“About that,” he replied, “I don’t really deserve—”

“Oh, yes, you do.” Karigan’s response was perhaps a little too emphatic. “You have been the backbone of the business far more consistently than I could hope to be. My service to the king will no doubt take me away more often as we approach spring. Do not underestimate yourself, Robert. You know the best course for the clan.”

He bowed his head. “I will do my best, madam.”

“And I look forward to meeting your aunts,” Trudy said, “and hearing all about little Karigan as she grew up.”

Trudy was a mischief maker, but not maliciously so. Karigan said her good-byes and left the court for the icy street. She felt reassured her aunts would come out of this fine, though she wished they would have told her about the sale of the estate, and to whom.

Suttleys, she thought with disgust. They’d defile her family home just by their presence.

The shock of it all would settle eventually, no matter how much it hurt.

As for Celesta? The law would catch up with her, but in the meantime, Karigan decided she was overdue for weapons practice.

THE VOICE OF VOICES

Crushing, suffocating . . .

Stone pressed against Alton from all angles, threatened to pulverize his bones. He could not breathe and panic surged through him.

Darkness. He could see nothing.

Did the guardians hate him so much that they had decided to kill him by crushing and entombing him?

Be easy, Green Rider, came a voice, or many voices in unison.

How could he, he wondered, with all this weight against his chest suffocating him?

But then it felt as if the stone contracted, gave him more space to breathe, and no longer pressed on him. However, it remained contoured around his body. He wiggled and writhed, but was stuck, and his panic began to rise again.

Easy, Green Rider.

“Who are you?” he demanded. His lips brushed granite as he spoke.

Enter the stone as you would from within a tower.

He wasn’t in stone already? But he knew what the voice meant. He settled mind and body as much as he could under the circumstances, and sent his mind into stone.

The space his mind traveled in was cavernous and fluid, broken by the familiar structures of granite: pearly pink feldspar, chunky columns of hornblende, and clusters of branching quartz crystal. It occurred to him that he was seeing inside stone at the most minuscule of perspectives. But, to some extent it had to be illusion, for these elements of mineral and crystal were bound together.

Molten magma, came the voice or voices, in the time before time, cooled into the granite you know and created the formations.

“Who are you?” he asked.

He was familiar with the song of the guardians that maintained the magical essence of the wall, as well as the beat, like a stoneworker’s hammer, keeping the song in rhythm. Aside from his late cousin, Pendric, who had merged with the wall east of the breach, he’d never been addressed directly in this manner.

Light glittered in the cavern, a flurry of sparkles that coalesced into a roughly humanlike form. It appeared female, but was entirely translucent crystal. This was a completely new experience for him when it came to the wall.

“Green Rider Deyer,” she said in a voice underlain by a chorus of others. Her words reverberated off the crystal formations and made his ears tingle back in his body.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I am the Voice of Voices. I am the union of all guardians who were sundered from those on the other side of the breach.”

“I understand,” he replied. “You speak on behalf of the guardians this side of the breach.”

“We are the guardians between the breach and the null tower. We speak as one.”

“You mean Tower of the Earth? You can’t reach the guardians beyond the tower?”

“This is correct,” she replied.

He’d have been more fascinated by all this were he not concerned about his body being fossilized somewhere in the wall.

“Why have you trapped me in here?” he asked. “If you want to kill me, just do it.”

The Voice of Voices did not speak for a while, and he wondered if she were consulting with the rest of the guardians before responding.

Presently, she replied, “If sacrifice to the wall is your desire, we will accommodate you.”

“You misunderstand me,” he said. “Sacrifice is definitely not what I desire.”

Her features lacked detail, and her nature so alien she was difficult to read.

“We did not think so,” she replied. “We would welcome you for we seek new blood, but your sacrifice could prove counterproductive.”

Back in his body, he shuddered. He was relieved they did not intend to sacrifice him, but the ominous words about their desire to obtain fresh blood was worrisome.

“We have drawn you in,” the Voice said, “because the wall grows more frail with every passing day.”

“I am doing my best,” Alton said. “We’ve lost the old ways, and we discovered that the only way to fix the wall is with more sacrifices. Even if that was an acceptable solution, there are too few magic users left in the world in this day and age.”

“So the failure of the wall that will cost hundreds of thousands of lives as opposed to a few is the better alternative?”

“You are suggesting an impossible choice. How many lives were sacrificed to build this wall? A war’s worth of casualties, that’s how many. The man who created the magic of this wall was a terrible person, a murderer.”

“Theanduris Silverwood,” the Voice said in an almost whisper. “He was a necromancer.”

“Yes, and he left us vulnerable because there are so few left who possess magical abilities, and of those who do, our magic is minor, a distinct disadvantage when it comes to facing a powerful foe like Mornhavon the Black.”

“Still, even one life—”

“One life?” he asked. “I thought it was counterproductive to sacrifice me.”

“The other Deyer. Young blood of the line will—”

“My brother? Who were you,” he demanded, “before they sacrificed you to the wall?”

His words seemed to take her aback. She drifted, her crystalline form agleam. “We must—”

“Who were you?” he asked. “Were you a baker? A farmer? Maybe you worked in a shop or tended a family?”

“I—We are guardians.” She appeared perplexed.

“You were an individual once,” he said, “before you were a guardian, before they took a knife to you.”

“We—”

“No. You. The individual.”

The Voice of Voices fell silent again. In the background, the song of the guardians continued on. Whether she was consulting with the others, or thinking back trying to remember her life of a thousand years ago, he could not say.

“We—I . . .” she said. “I was a Green Rider.”

Her answer chilled him.

“I was a Green Rider,” she said again, but with more confidence. “It is why I was chosen to be the Voice of Voices to speak with you.” She leveled her gaze at him—not that she had actual eyes. “I remember someone espied me moving my gear with my mind. We were encamped with the soldiers of the Fifth. The spy informed the Black Shields, and they took me and questioned me. They wanted to know if any other Green Riders had magic. I was strong and resolute. I denied that any other Green Riders had magic despite the torture. It was just me. Even Silverwood could not break me.”

“You saved lives,” he said. “The Green Riders have done important work for Sacoridia over the centuries. If you had not defied Silverwood and the Black Shields, the realm would have fallen to despots and invaders.”

“One life for the many. A small sacrifice.”

“Did you want to die?”

“No.”

He was determined to make her recall her humanity. If they were to understand one another, he must make her—all of them—see that sacrifice was not an option.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“We are guardians. We are one.”

“What was your name before they sacrificed you?”

“I can’t . . . We can’t . . .”

He sensed the turmoil in her and the agitation of the other guardians. “Your name, Green Rider.”

“We are not a Green Rider.”

“Once a Green Rider, always a Green Rider,” he shot back. “I order you to speak your name, Rider.” He had no idea if hierarchy meant anything in the world of the guardians, but it was worth a try.

She flailed. “I do not remember.”

He did not believe her. “What was your horse’s name?”

The crystalline structures vibrated with her distress. “I’d two. Bastard and Itch.”

He almost laughed. They were strange names for messenger horses, but it had been a different time. The Riders of old used any horses they could get their hands on. They hadn’t access to the special horses that present-day Riders rode.

“My horse’s name is Night Hawk,” he told her. “I go by Alton. What was your name? If you can remember Bastard and Itch, surely you can remember your own.”

“We do not—”

“Your name, Rider. Give me your name.”

The stone around his body pressed threateningly on him.

“Stop!” she ordered.

At first he didn’t realize she was talking to the guardians and not him. After a moment, the pressure of stone on him eased.

“I was Charmayn. Aye, Charmayn Leed of the Westerfold.”

There was more of an inflection to her tone as she spoke, an accent. He did not know of a Westerfold, but place names changed over time and he was unlikely to find it on current maps.

“My parents were fisher folk,” she said, “when they weren’t soldiering. They were killed by the forces of the Dark One when I was eleven.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I had them longer than most. I was soon sent to the orphan camps and forced to work the forge that made arrowheads. Then I was called. I never knew peace, only war.”

The Long War, and what came after, was a dark part of Sacoridia’s history. The invasion by Mornhavon and his Arcosian forces had set them back centuries, and Charmayn Leed had suffered many sacrifices, no doubt, before ever being forced to give herself to the wall.

“I was Charmayn Leed,” she said, as if surprised to hear herself say it.

“Rider Charmayn Leed,” he replied.

His effort to make her recall her individuality, however, came to naught.

“We must show you,” she said, “why sacrifice is necessary. You must follow.”

He wasn’t willing to give up on her just yet. “Lead on, Rider.”

They flowed through forests of branching crystals. He could not say which way they went, up or down, forward, or backward. He simply followed her light and trusted all would be well. Pounding vibrations soon rocked their passage. It was not in sync with the rhythm of the guardians, but random and visceral.

She brought him to the rim of a vast, jagged canyon. It shuddered under the pounding and a sick feeling rose in his gut back in his body.

“This is inside the Blackveil side of the wall, isn’t it?” he said.

“It is. The Dark One’s servants have been attempting to chip at the wall. We are holding best as we can, but there is damage from the null tower.”

“How so?”

“The great mage who resided there used powerful magics within. Spells of protection. However, those spells have eroded this section of wall. Weakened it. The Dark One has seen an opportunity to attack.”

How had he not known this? “Why haven’t you told me before now?”

“This attack is recent. You do not often connect with us.”

“That’s not true,” but as soon as he said it, he knew it was. “I was injured, almost died, and recuperated away from the wall.” He did not add that upon his return, he had largely spent his time at Tower of the Heavens.

“We are cut off from the wall to the east by the breach, and to the west by the null tower. There is no mage to mind the tower. It isolates us. Our unity is sundered. The neglect by wall keepers has endangered all.”

“The wall keepers have been gone for centuries,” he replied. “I am, as far as I know, the only one who can connect directly with you.”

“The other Deyer,” the Voice said.

“I’m working with him to—”

A thunderous hammer blow rattled the formations around them. Clustered columns of hornblende shattered and fell into the canyon. Duncan, Alton thought, needed to extinguish Haurris’ spells so they did not erode the wall further, but doing so would just open another way for dark Sleepers to cross over into Sacoridia.

After another deafening blow, Alton, in reflex, shielded the area with his ability. It muffled the pounding and stabilized the area.

The Voice of Voices, once a Green Rider named Charmayn, drew into herself, did not speak. Alton focused on maintaining his shield.

“We approve,” she said after a while. “You will stay and shield the wall.”

“I cannot hold my ability for long,” he said. “And I cannot stay.”

“You will then be sacrificed,” she replied, “and your brother.”

“Rider—” he began.

“Rider Charmayn Leed is dead. We are guardians. Individuality is disunity. Disunity will cause the wall to fail.”

“There must be some other way.” His body already felt the strain of holding the shield. The hammer blows slammed into him physically.

The Voice shed sudden sparkles of light and Alton perceived a change in her attitude. When he realized why, his scream reverberated among all the crystals and through a vast swath of the wall.

A TIME FOR SACRIFICE

The watchfire not only kept Estral warm, but prevented her ink from freezing as she wrote in her book, or what she one day hoped to be a book on the history of the Green Riders. Currently she was jotting down notes on passages she would expand on later. Her mind was too muddled by worry, and a lack of good sleep, to draft well-formed sentences. After they’d arrived at the Tower of the Earth encampment, she had attempted to rest in the tent they provided her, but she could only doze fitfully. Eventually she gave up and moved to the watchfire where she could have a full view of the wall where Alton had disappeared, and of the tower.

Word had been sent back to the breach encampment to update Captain Rennard and Dale, as well as to Tower of the Trees where Garth was stationed to see if there was anything Mad Leaf could find out from the guardians. Duncan paced in front of the wall, muttering to himself, and kicked it from time to time with outbursts of ancient profanities. Rider Copperhaven remained unconscious and therefore unable to redeposit his pouch into the tower, and Estral and Marc were forbidden to go anywhere near it.

As for Marc, the soldiers were good about giving him little jobs to do to keep him occupied. Otherwise, he ran about with excess energy and threw rocks at the wall.

“That is not going to help your brother,” Duncan chastised.

“Neither is kicking the wall,” Marc shot back, but he relented and threw rocks into the forest instead. He might not, at his age, admit to loving his brother, but his agitation showed otherwise.

Estral couldn’t blame him. She felt helpless and enraged at not being able to do anything. Even if she did touch the wall, she knew she would not be able to engage the guardians, and if she entered the tower, Haurris’ old spells would kill her.

I am the worst Golden Guardian ever, she thought. She’d no voice with which to sing or tell tales. Her understanding of music had been stolen along with her voice. She’d played a lute since she was a small child and had been considered excellent at it, but now she could not conceptualize how to make chords even when shown.

She looked down at her book. She was adding notes to the section on the torture of Karigan at the hands of Second Empire in the north, which she had been forced to witness. It was, she supposed, an act of self-flagellation to work on this part with all the nightmarish details it brought back to the front of her mind. She would live with the guilt to the end of her days for having gotten Karigan in that situation, no matter Karigan’s forgiveness. Putting the story down on paper to reveal to all who read it was a continuation of her penance.

But maybe it was too soon to revisit that trauma. The words blurred before her eyes and she hastily rubbed tears away. She flipped the page and found the part of the story when the gryphons, Mister Whiskers and Midnight, had come to them to comfort the wounded Karigan who suffered from shock and fever, and to help them escape when Enver arrived to rescue them. This was easier to bear. She dipped her pen into her inkpot and got caught up in correcting grammatical errors and rephrasing sentences for clarity and impact.

She might not be able to sing anymore, but she still had a voice. It was just expressed with pen and paper.

When she was pleased by her description of sleek Midnight flying overhead against the stars while she and Karigan escaped on Enver’s horse, she set her pen aside and reached for her cup of tea. It was cold, and she blinked in surprise. The sun had shifted westward and the watch was changing. So deeply pulled into her writing had she been that she had not been aware of the passage of time.

It was quiet. Marc wasn’t tearing around or throwing rocks or banging on things anymore. She spied him near the wall staring at it. He stood beside the guard, so she need not—

When a guard arrived to relieve the one who had been on duty, Marc sprinted for the wall.

Estral shot to her feet dropping her mug and book. Her ink pot fell to its side and poured onto the ground in a black puddle. She opened her mouth to shout, but nothing came out. The guards were too slow to react.

When Marc reached the wall, he pressed his hands against its granite facade and was absorbed into it.

“No,” Estral whispered. “No . . .”

She had failed to keep watch over him and once more she was helpless to act.

“You idiot!” Alton’s mental voice vibrated on crystals even as the guardians rejoiced. He was feeling the strain of holding his shield in place for so long though the hammering had slowed. Perhaps the servants of Mornhavon wondered why they failed to make progress.

The spirit projection of Marc—Alton did not know what else to call it—peered over the edge into the canyon. “You came in first,” he retorted.

“Not by choice.” At least, Alton thought, his brother wasn’t panicking.

“Welcome, young Deyer,” said the Voice of Voices.

“This guardian is Rider Leed,” Alton said.

“Rider Leed is no more,” the Voice told Marc. “I am the voice of the guardians.”

“You all called to me,” Marc said. “I got sick of it, and no one was doing anything to help Alton.”

“Nothing they can do,” Alton said, “and the guardians want to sacrifice us.”

“Oh.” Marc’s voice was small. “Like cousin Pendric.”

“Yes, like cousin Pendric.”

“A sacrifice to help keep the wall intact,” the Voice said, “and to sing with us.”

Marc’s silence said it all.

The hammering against the wall resumed and Alton’s shield faltered.

“A little help from you guardians?” he asked.

To his relief, they lightened his load by focusing their song on the affected area.

“Even if you sacrifice us,” Alton said, “it will not heal this damage or the breach.”

The Voice did not respond.

Marc, meanwhile, who had the attention span of a gnat, knocked on a tall crystal shaft. The resulting disharmonious vibration threw off the song of the guardians.

“Don’t touch anything,” Alton snapped.

Marc pouted. “Hard not to when it surrounds your body.”

“Well, don’t touch it with your mind.”

“How am I supposed to help, then?”

“You would have helped if you stayed away from the wall,” Alton replied. This was ridiculous, arguing with his little brother while trapped in the wall.

Alton’s shield waned further under the assault of Mornhavon’s servants, and crystals swayed and shattered. The canyon widened with a deafening crack, and the song of the guardians veered out of tune and off rhythm. To Alton, each blow was like being inside a bell while the hammer rang out the hour. His teeth vibrated.

“To me!” Alton cried to the guardians. “I can’t hold the shield.”

The chaos disunited the guardians and few heeded his call. One who did was the Voice, and she, with some others, tried to restore harmony. It helped very little.

Marc hopped out of the way of a falling column of hornblende.

“It’s not enough,” Alton said through gritted teeth.

“Maybe I can help.”

“Can you sing?” Alton demanded.

“No,” Marc replied.

“Do you have a magic ability I’m unaware of?”

“Got me.”

Alton swore. If he could not halt the damage wrought by Mornhavon’s servants, the guardians would definitely sacrifice him and Marc.

“We’re gonna die, aren’t we,” Marc said.

“If they don’t let us go,” Alton replied, “yeah.”

“I don’t want to die.”

“Me either, but I can’t hold on much longer.”

Marc seemed to turn the situation over in his mind. “We can’t let Blackveil break our wall. It would look bad for the clan.”

Alton snorted. The clan’s reputation was the first thing he thought of?

Tentatively, Marc touched Alton’s head, or at least that was how the illusory images of them appeared, but what Marc actually did was touch Alton’s mind with his own.

“Don’t go too deep,” Alton said.

“And see your memories of kissing girls? Yuck.”

Somehow, Marc knew how to flow his energy into Alton, allowing Alton to strengthen his shield.

“How?” Alton asked.

“No idea. I just thought it.”

The reinforced shield muffled the pounding and the wall stabilized. It gave the guardians a chance to compose themselves and sing in harmony once more.

The Voice of Voices drifted to them. “It is decided. We require innocent blood. The time has come for sacrifice.”

SONG OF THE WOOD THRUSH

“Oh, dear,” Duncan muttered, his ear pressed against the wall.

“What? What?” Estral demanded.

“The vibration is all wrong. The guardians are in turmoil.”

As a minstrel, Estral had maintained her fingernails for lute playing—short on her chording hand, and longer on her strumming hand, but now she’d chewed all her fingernails to the quick with her anxiety over Alton and Marc.

Duncan gave her a look that turned into a long, penetrating gaze. “How far along are you?”

“What? How can you—? I’m—”

“With child,” he finished for her when her voice failed. “Before I went to live with the eagles, I did quite a lot of midwifing, so I know the look. Actually, it was mostly goats and cows I helped birth.”

She faced him with her hands on her hips.

“Pigs, too,” he said thoughtfully.

When she sent him a dark look, he cleared his throat. “Not that I am comparing you to, um . . .”

She waited.

“I mean, pregnant females have that look.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“I did have plenty of human patients. I mean, maybe not as many as goats, but . . .” He chuckled nervously and pushed back his hair. “It would seem I am digging myself in.”

“You think?” she asked.

He cleared his throat again. “The point is, I’ve also retained enough of my magic that I can sense the other life in you.” Proudly, he added, “And babies like me. Babies of all kinds.”

“I haven’t known for long,” Estral admitted. “Mender thinks a couple months.”

“Does the Deyer know?”

She shook her head and took up her chalk and slate. The right moment hasn’t come up and his being heir complicates matters.

“Ah,” Duncan replied. “You are carrying the child of the heir of . . . What do they call them in this Age? Lord-governor? Surely it is a simple matter of being wed.”

She shook her head.

“A problem with his parents? They don’t approve?”

She nodded.

“But you are the Fiori.”

No land or wealth, she wrote.

“Oh, of course,” Duncan replied. “Noble marriages are all about the land, power, and enrichment. I am sorry you find yourself in this situation.”

She knew that “this situation,” as Duncan put it, was apt to shake up the nobility in unexpected ways. If Alton’s parents did not accept the child, he or she would still achieve status as her heir, and become the next Golden Guardian. She was certain Alton would be overjoyed to know he was to be a father, come what may, and she wanted her child to know their father.

“We were careful,” she whispered, “or so I thought. We believed we couldn’t conceive because of some spell on his Rider brooch.”

“As is so often the case,” Duncan replied, “whoever spelled the brooches thought only about keeping the female Riders from conceiving. I guess so it would not interfere with their duties.”

It was always thrust upon the women, she thought, the responsibility over pregnancy and its consequences—or the lack thereof—even though a man was also needed to create babies. She shook her head. In any case, it would have been useful to know about the difference in Rider brooches at the outset.

“I suppose allowing male Green Riders to romp with and impregnate females as they rode across the realm,” Duncan said, “was one way to ensure more Riders came from somewhere in a world where most magic users were nearly extinct.”

It was the sort of thing, Estral thought, the Golden Guardian should have known, but the notion hadn’t even occurred to her. When she returned to Selium, she intended to comb the archives for any hint that supported Duncan’s words, but almost nothing was recorded about Green Riders, so that information probably did not exist. It was why she had decided to write their history with what could be found.

We have to get them out, she wrote on her slate. She would not let her child enter the world without knowing his or her father.

“I am not sure what can be done since the guardians won’t let me in, though they’ve allowed me to sense the Deyers are still alive. There is also activity among the guardians I can’t yet grasp.”

Estral paced furiously before the wall. She wanted to beat on it, but after Marc flanked the guards, they kept an eagle’s eye on her. They allowed her reasonably near the wall to observe and speak with Duncan, but she was forbidden to touch it.

They’d also received news from Tower of the Trees that Mad Leaf had had no luck in connecting with the guardians.

It didn’t help Estral’s nerves any when Duncan rested his ear against the wall and said, “Hmm. It sounds like there is something going on with the wall on the Blackveil side, and that’s what has got them stirred up. Not good, not good at all.”

The whole encampment was on edge. The soldiers looked ready to jump and attack at the slightest provocation, and even the sounds of squirrels thrashing through the underbrush in the woods, and the squabbling of birds, bore a frenetic quality. She almost envied Rider Copperhaven her oblivious, unconscious state. Almost.

“These are very bad vibrations,” Duncan said.

It was maddening that no swear words issued from her mouth when she tried to voice them. She kicked a rock and regretted it instantly. She limped in a circle mouthing a torrent of expletives no one could hear. She’d learned most of them from Karigan during their school days.

“Breaking your toes is not going to help anything,” Duncan chided.

She thought more swear words at him.

When finally she could put weight on her foot again, a bird fluttered from the woods in an ungainly flight as though it was exhausted. It landed on her head.

Uh . . . ? she thought. She hoped it didn’t plan to make a nest of her hair. Maybe it just needed a rest. Carefully she removed it from her head and let it sit on her hand. It was a brown bird with a mottled brown-and-white breast about the size of a robin. It gazed quizzically at her with a tilt of its head. Just another little brown bird, she thought, but then it sang a beautiful flutey song she recognized. A thrush! Its woodland song was one of her favorites.

The bird lifted off from her hand and flew in a circle around her, only to hover in front of her face. Before she knew what was happening, it flew full force into her neck. Immediately it awakened the memory of the redbird that had stolen her voice.

She tried to scream, but she choked. Something large lodged in her throat. She doubled over trying to breathe.

“My lady?” Duncan shouted in dismay.

A rough-textured live thing rasped the inside of her throat. It slithered up her windpipe and disgorged itself from her mouth—a black snake. Panic further constrained her ability to breathe and swallow. The edges of her vision blackened. The serpent slipped the rest of the way out of her mouth and dropped to the ground, where it flicked its tongue and coiled into a ball and, like the thrush, vanished from existence.

Estral gasped and fell to her hands and knees, hacking and retching, and hungered for breath. Duncan and some of the soldiers clustered around her.

“What the hells is going on?” Lieutenant Janes demanded.

“A magical attack.” Duncan said.

“Where from? Blackveil?”

“I don’t think so.”

The soldiers helped her to the watchfire and seated her on a log bench. A blanket was placed over her shoulders, and someone was sent after Mender Kane, who was in the forest searching for herbs.

Estral was numb. Another magical attack, and no, it had not come from Blackveil, but the child, Lala. Of this, Estral was certain. What had Lala taken from her this time? She rubbed her throat. It was sore inside and out. If anything happened to her child because of this . . . Someone handed her a skin of water and she took a sip. It hurt to swallow.

The lieutenant and Duncan peppered her with questions and talked over and around her. She’d dropped her slate and chalk by the wall, so she could not speak. She’d lost Alton to the wall, and now the evil child, Lala, had attacked her again. Estral wanted to give up, throw herself against the wall. Hide under a blanket. She could not, would not, however, because of the life inside her.

She cleared her throat. “Slate,” she whispered. The lieutenant sent a soldier to go pick it up. She fought to maintain her composure, and wished Alton were there to comfort her.

Mender Kane pushed through those who surrounded her to reach her. “Lady Fiori,” he said, “they tell me you suffered a magical attack. Are you in pain?”

She nodded and pointed at her throat.

He knelt before her and felt around it. “Doesn’t seem to be swollen.” He removed a small mirror from his pocket to reflect the waning sunlight into her throat. “Try to say aaah.”

She did as he instructed, but did not emit a simple aaah. Rather, it came out as a full-throated melodious note. She clapped her hand over her mouth in shock. The whole encampment fell silent.

The soldier sent to fetch her slate approached.

Mender Kane sat back on his heels. “I don’t think she’ll be needing that. Lady Fiori, would you like to try again?”

She nodded and repeated the performance for her stunned audience. “I can . . . I can sing,” she said.

“And speak clearly,” Mender Kane said with a smile. “Your throat is red and angry, so I suggest you do not use your voice too much. We wouldn’t want you to do permanent damage to your vocal cords after you just got it back. Put some extra honey in your tea to soothe it.”

“My voice is back,” she said in amazement to no one in particular. She could sing! And suddenly a whole world re-opened for her, one that had been missing for so long, almost as if she could hear all the music of the world, all the nuance from every direction of birds and the wind, of soldiers in conversation, of horses munching hay at the pickets. She remained deaf in her one ear as she had always been since childhood, but still she heard the sounds around her as a symphony she had not realized had been muted since Lala stole her voice. Not only that, but she could see individual notes in her mind’s eye and understand them. Her fingers itched to play her lute, but she had stopped carrying it with her since, under the spell, she hadn’t been able to play it. That would have to change.

I can sing, I can sing, I can sing!

Her joy was tempered, however, by suspicion of the source of its return and her fear for Alton. As the watchers dispersed to go about their duties, she turned to Duncan. “It’s too good to be true. It has to be some trick.”

Duncan shrugged. “Perhaps the Lala creature tired of it and decided to give it back, or maybe she has died.”

“No, I don’t believe she’s dead. Someone had to make the spell. It was intentional. The bird was like the redbird that stole my voice.”

“Likely you are correct. She has the making of being a great mage.”

That was a chilling thought.

“But that is neither here nor there,” Duncan said. He leaned toward her as if to share a secret. “Whatever the story behind the return of your voice, it resonated with the guardians. I could feel it.”

Estral stood and the blanket fell from her shoulders. Yes! The guardians had liked her singing before. The wall had even begun to heal before she lost her voice.

“Maybe,” she began, still startled to hear her own full voice, “I can convince them to release Alton and Marc.”

Duncan looked this way and that as if to ensure no one was eavesdropping. “My thought exactly, but do so without getting trapped, too.”

“Do you think the lieutenant would allow me to touch the wall?”

“Perhaps it’s better we don’t ask for permission. It will just give him an opportunity to deny you. Plus, it’ll make them suspicious and even more chary about allowing you near it. We’ll just have to convince the guard that we do have permission.”

He’d a sneaky smile, and she returned it. She grabbed his pouch and together they left the watchfire and strode toward the wall as if they owned it. When the soldier on guard ordered them to halt, they continued on.

“The lieutenant asked us to take a closer look where Lord Alton and Lord Marc went in,” Duncan said.

When that did not convince the guard, Estral said, “You know who I am, yes?”

“The Lady Fiori,” he answered.

“Yes. I am the Golden Guardian. I’ve more rank than even Lord Alton. Therefore, I’ve more authority than anyone present at the wall. I respect the lieutenant’s concerns, but he does not command me. You may ask him yourself.”

The poor soldier did not seem to know what to say or do. Estral and Duncan proceeded toward the wall.

“Well done, my lady,” Duncan said. “That was quick thinking.”

“My rank ought to be good for something.” Even if Alton’s parents didn’t think so, she did not add.

When she came within arm’s reach of the wall, she was buoyed by the idea she might be able to finally do something useful for Alton and Marc. Her throat, however, was still raw, and there was no telling what would happen if she touched the wall.

Duncan glanced over his shoulder. “Uh, oh, the lieutenant is headed this way and he looks none too pleased.”

She did not hesitate. No time to worry about consequences. She set Duncan’s pouch on the ground and laid her hands flat against the grainy texture of granite and sang.

THE RESONANCE OF CRYSTALS

Estral sang the song of the guardians. It was song without words that captured the harmony and rhythm that had pulsed through the wall for centuries. Music was the magic that bound the wall and had made it strong. All those guardians singing as one.

When first they discovered the guardians liked her singing, they also found it healed some of the cracks in the wall near the breach, and that was why Grandmother and Lala had stolen her voice and musical ability—to prevent her from fixing the wall.

She poured strength and energy and love into her voice, all her longing for Alton to be returned to her, and her hope for the future of the life she bore within, how her child would grow and prosper. The guardians thrummed with excitement and they joined in with her. The vibration of their voices tingled within her from her toes to the roots of her hair. After a time, her voice cracked, and mindful of what Mender Kane had told her, she paused and stepped back, thinking it wise to rest her voice. She was surprised to find a group watching her, including the lieutenant and Rider Copperhaven, who looked wan but definitely conscious.

“Your voice pulled me from the darkness,” Peri said.

“You are straining your vocal cords,” Mender Kane warned, his expression serious. He handed her a cup of tea sweetened with honey, which she accepted gratefully.

“Did you learn anything?” the lieutenant asked.

“Just that the guardians like the singing,” Duncan said. “They gave us no information, however, and they still won’t let me in.”

“I think we all liked the singing,” a soldier said, and the others nodded and murmured in agreement.

A flickering on the wall caught Estral’s attention. Glyphs of ancient Sacoridian appeared with a silvery glow.

“What does it say?” the lieutenant asked.

Estral could read the old script, but not quickly.

Duncan gave it a mere glance and said, “The guardians want more.”

“She must rest her voice,” Mender Kane said, “or she won’t be able to sing at all. Perhaps you could try more gently?”

She nodded.

“Everyone back to your posts,” the lieutenant said. Reluctantly the onlookers dispersed. “It’s clear you are the only hope of reaching Lords Alton and Marc,” he told Estral. “We’ll keep watch to make sure nothing untoward happens while you work.” With that, he trudged off.

Pleased that she now had explicit permission to work with the wall, she turned to Duncan. “I am going to try something different.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“That piece of music from the Silverwood book, the notes my ancestor Gerlrand Fiori wrote down. I never found the answering notes, but let’s see what happens.”

She placed her hands against the wall once more and leaned into it. She could sense the anticipation of the guardians, but it took her a while to remember the notes and modulate her voice to a comfortable level. She ran through the melody as written a few times before giving herself over to it.

This time she did not exert her voice, and found it was not necessary, anyway. She ran through the melody several times, and then improvised by adding complementary harmonies. Some were an attempt to answer the original questioning notes, some headed off on a flight of fancy. She did not force it, and she always came back to the original.

The thrill of the guardians buzzed against her hands and through her bones. As she sang, she pictured the setting sun, the wind among the branches of trees in the woods. She thought of homey things, a cup of tea, a good book, and her cat, Timbre, sprawled across her lap. Again she drew on her love for Alton and the child that was theirs.

Vaguely she was aware of Duncan trying to catch her attention, but it was like she could not stop. She had to keep giving. If she was to see Alton again, she must give all. She would give the whole of her voice to have him back safely for her sake, and for that of their child.

“My lady!” Duncan shrieked into her ear.

Too late she realized her hands were sinking into the wall and she could not pull them out. The stone grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her in.

“What’s happening?” Marc asked.

The singing resonated among all the crystals and the Voice of Voices had vanished. The guardians were rapturous.

“It’s Estral,” Alton replied in wonder. Joy built in his chest. Her song surrounded him in waves of beauty and love. Yes, it was the usual song of the guardians, but with the crystals layering in harmonic tones, it was elevated to something even greater.

“I thought her voice didn’t work,” Marc said.

“I don’t know how it’s happened,” Alton replied, “but it is her.”

The guardians, he realized, had begun singing with her, infusing more harmony into the song, and it eased the pressure against his magical shield over the wounded part of the wall. He touched the area with his mind and was amazed to feel the cracks starting to reseal themselves, and the wall protecting itself from the hammer blows of Mornhavon’s servants.

“It’s Estral,” he murmured again and again. He thought his chest would burst it was so full of love and joy. He no longer had to maintain his shield and he released it with relief.

When the singing paused, the anticipation of the guardians was palpable, a hum that vibrated through his trapped body, removed from it though he was. When she began singing again, the guardians joined right in. It was not the usual song, but the questioning notes written by her ancestor so long ago. She went through those notes a few times and then began singing variations that dove into whole new melodies. A thrill shivered through the wall.

The Voice of Voices reappeared. “We have been given a great gift of healing today, but we still require sacrifice.”

“No!” Alton cried, thinking they were going to take Marc, but the next thing he knew, the wall spat him out and he rolled onto the ground. He immediately jumped to his feet and pounded on stone. “You can’t have him! You can’t have him—take me!”

The guardians did not respond, and though he pressed his hands against stone, they would not absorb him.

“You can’t—”

The wall disgorged Marc, who hit the ground with a grunt.

“Marc!” Alton grabbed him even as he climbed unsteadily to his feet. “Are you all right?”

“I guess.”

“Thank the gods, thank the gods.” He held Marc in a rough embrace.

“Lemme go,” Marc protested. “I can’t breathe.”

Alton almost wilted in relief and released his brother. “I thought they were going to sacrifice you.” Then he became angry. “You young idiot. I told you not to—”

“Love you, too.” Marc patted dust off his knees, then pointed to a group behind Alton trying to get his attention.

“My lord,” Lieutenant Janes said. “Are you—”

“We’re fine,” Alton replied. “Both of us.” His words, however, did little to ease the concern on their faces. “What is it?” He looked around at those who stood there—Lieutenant Janes, Duncan, Peri, Mender Kane, and a few others. “Where’s Estral?” he asked. When they did not answer immediately, he demanded, “Where’s Estral?”

Duncan stepped forward and, without expression, said, “In the wall.”

Alton’s howl of anguish bounced off the wall and back into the encampment, carried into the woods, and seemingly beyond.

• • •

Alton refused to leave the wall, and no one made him. Night had fallen and he would not touch food or drink. He banged his fists on the wall with a fury he had not felt in years, and alternately leaned against it, beseeching the guardians to take him instead.

Nothing. They gave him nothing.

Duncan stood nearby, shaking his head.

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Alton asked him yet again.

“They will not talk to me.”

Alton clenched his bruised and bleeding hands to bang on the wall again when, just like that, Estral stepped through stone. It took a moment of astonishment before he pulled her into his arms, hugging and kissing her.

She took his hand. “You’ve been hurting yourself.”

He smiled sheepishly. “It’s not too bad.” His whole body trembled with relief. “But please, don’t tell Dale about it.”

“I will promise no such thing.”

“Duncan told me how you got your voice back—your beautiful voice! I could hear you singing.”

“What happened in there?” Duncan asked.

“I had a very interesting conversation,” she replied, “with the Voice of Voices. She was once a Green Rider.”

“We know,” Alton said. “What did she say? I thought the guardians were going to . . .” He swallowed hard. “I thought they were going to sacrifice you.”

“No,” she said. “They needed me to sing.” She paused but looked up at the encampment where the lieutenant and others clustered by the fire, waiting to hear her tale, but discreetly kept their distance while Alton welcomed her back. “I’d like some tea, and maybe a bite to eat.”

It calmed Alton more to hear her make so ordinary a request. “You may have anything you wish that is in my power to give, my lady.” He took her hand and led her to where the others waited. Duncan followed. When they reached the watchfire, Alton said, “I know you all have questions, but Lady Fiori requires tea and supper.”

Lieutenant Janes ordered one of his soldiers to see to it.

Estral assured the lieutenant she was well, and that they’d successfully mended the damage to the wall wrought by Mornhavon’s servants.

“That is a relief,” he replied.

“It will not stay mended,” she said with a warning tone, “unless the spells in Tower of the Earth are extinguished. They weakened this section of wall, allowing Mornhavon to take advantage.”

“And so we must decide if we keep the spells,” Alton said, “to prevent dark Sleepers from coming through the tower, but take the chance the wall might weaken again, allowing Mornhavon’s forces to break it and storm through.”

“Or,” Duncan finished, “we extinguish the spells and keep the wall strong, but allow access for dark Sleepers. To extinguish the spells, we’ll need to pull Haurris’ bones out.”

As they discussed the negatives and positives of their options, and what to do with a great mage’s bones, Alton saw, from the corner of his eye, Peri beckoning Estral aside.

“I do not think storing them in the eyrie is the final answer,” Duncan was saying.

They argued back and forth until suddenly Estral cried out, a sound of such anguish it was as if all the world had stopped.

TIMELESS GRACE

“I saw blood staining her trousers,” Peri explained to Lieutenant Janes. “I thought it might be her time of the month.”

Alton, too numb to speak, barely heard the conversation. He could only stare at Estral’s tent where Mender Kane tended her within. Why hadn’t she told him she was carrying their child? He recalled how pensive and withdrawn she’d become. How long had she known?

“Why?” he murmured to himself.

Duncan must have overheard and divined exactly what Alton was questioning, for he said, “She had not known for long, and wanted to tell you at the right moment.”

Alton rounded on the mage. “You knew?”

“I guessed, and she confirmed. It was while you were still trapped in the wall. You know, she was beyond upset you were stuck in there, same as you when she was.”

Alton closed his eyes. “I know. You shouldn’t have let her touch the wall.”

“Hah! As if I could have stopped her. You are both determined fools in love.”

The mage had a point.

“She will be well,” Duncan reassured him.

She better be, Alton thought. He gazed upward. Clouds had begun to obscure the moon and the stars. The constellation of the horse, however, still galloped free across the heavens. Not one to pray, he sent a small prayer to Aeryc. He did not know how to feel about the child that would never be. It was all too much of a shock. He had hoped one day to have little heirs playing about his feet but hadn’t even considered children in the present. The loss of this one was probably for the best. It was not a good time to bring a child into the world with Mornhavon’s shadow growing. At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself. Yet, the regret of losing what could have been weighed on him.

Mender Kane emerged from the tent with his satchel of instruments and medicines, and strode to Alton. “She’ll be fine physically,” the mender said, “but emotionally, a miscarriage can hit hard, and not just the mother.” He paused. “I’ve dosed Lady Fiori so she can sleep peacefully, but you may go see her. If you need any assistance, do not hesitate to send for me.”

Alton entered the tent. A lantern at low glow hung from one of the tent poles and limned Estral’s form curled beneath her blankets.

He pulled a camp chair to the side of her cot. “Estral?”

“I’m awake,” she said drowsily, without opening her eyes. “For the moment.”

He brushed strands of hair out of her face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It happens. You get your voice back, you lose your baby.”

“Estral—”

“I’m fine,” she said in a faint voice. Her body beneath her covers relaxed, and she breathed deeply and evenly. She’d fallen asleep just like that.

Alton settled in to keep watch.

• • •

He awoke with a start, confused as to where he was. He’d been sleeping in the camp chair with his head nestled on Estral’s cot. He shook off his grogginess, only to realize the cot was empty. He stepped out into the gray morning light and yawned. Steam flowed from his lips and he shivered. The sky burgeoned with clouds and he thought he could smell snow in the air. Few were up and about, but Estral was not by the cookfire or the larger watchfire.

A soldier warming his hands over the watchfire said, “Your lady is by the wall, sir.”

This information jolted him to full alert. He ran to the wall, where he found her sitting on the ground, her back resting against stone. He stopped in his tracks when he heard gentle strains of a song. Was she singing to herself, or to the wall?

“Estral?”

When she did not respond, he stepped closer and heard the words of a lullaby.

Sleep beneath the moon, little one

sleep beneath the stars

When the heavens shine above

fear is cast afar

Come dawn the birds will sing

beneath the rising sun

My little one will wake again

when morning has begun

He sat beside her on the cold damp ground. Still, she did not acknowledge him. Her eyes were closed as she sang; then she hummed the melody. It was several seconds after her voice faded that she finally opened her eyes and smiled at him. He did not expect the smile.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“I am very well.”

There was a stillness about her, a groundedness and a sense of peace.

“You were singing a lullaby,” he said. “My nurse used to sing one like it.”

“Yes. I wanted our son to know he’ll always be loved.”

“Our . . . ?”

“The spirit that would have been our son.”

Our son, our son . . . Unexpected feelings of loss mounted into waves of anger, for anger was swift and easier to bear. He recalled the Voice of Voices stating, We require innocent blood. He had thought she meant Marc.

“They took our son?” His throttled whisper might as well have been a roar.

The guardians had claimed their sacrifice.

Before he could unleash his fury, she took him into her arms. Firmly she held him.

“He will always be with us,” she murmured. “I love you.” She continued speaking words of comfort and reassurance and love, and slowly his need to lash out eased, but did not abate entirely.

“How can you not be angry?” he asked, marveling at her calm. “They took him from us—he’s really our son?”

She released him and sat back, though she hung onto his hands. “I have communicated with the Voice of Voices for some time this morning and have received impressions from his spirit. The Voice told me he would not have survived to term, and that his spirit agreed to reside with the guardians.”

“She’s lying.” His anger rose again. “They wanted a sacrifice.”

“They did, but she’s not lying. He wanted to stay if he couldn’t be with us. He wants the wall to stand strong as any Deyer would wish. As his father would wish.”

This broke Alton. He choked and sobbed, anger abruptly turning to grief. She drew him into her arms again and softly sang the lullaby to soothe him. It only brought a torrent of tears.

When he mastered himself, he wiped his eyes and nose with his sleeve.

“The guardians have surrounded him with love and song,” she told him.

“But he’s trapped in there.”

She nodded. “Yes, for as long as the wall stands as an etheric edifice. One day, however, it will crumble and pass, and will be barely a memory, as with all things. When that time comes, his spirit will be released along with all the guardians. If it helps, they do not feel time.”

It still didn’t sit right with him, but she squeezed his hand. “Would you like to meet him?” she asked.

“I can do that?”

“Place your hand against the wall as you normally would and sing the song of the guardians. I think he will be excited to meet you.”

Alton did as she instructed. Unlike his experience of the previous day, he was not sucked into the wall, nor did his consciousness transfer within, but the song thrummed inside him. It was a sort of typical communion with the wall, and he almost removed his hand in disappointment, but suddenly he detected a new, clear, and young voice that carried nuances of Estral’s. Vibrant, happy notes flowed into Alton, and tears welled in his eyes again.

The stone warmed beneath his palm as though he actually touched his son, and it filled him with love. The spirit that would have been his son reassured him he’d always be there, that he was proud to help keep the wall strong. Alton did his best to emanate his own pride and love in return. When he was done, he sagged.

“I’m wrung out,” he told Estral.

Flurries started tumbling from the sky in big, fat flakes.

“I understand. It will take time for both of us to make sense of it all, and we may always grieve for what might have been, but the world and our own lives go on. The guardians may exist in timeless grace, but we haven’t that luxury.” Snowflakes caught in her hair, on her eyelashes. “We must do something about the spells in Tower of the Earth, or everything we’ve just been through, the sacrifice of our son’s spirit, will be for naught.”

MAGIC HORSES

Darys wheeled the barrow into the stables, counting in his head how many more stalls he’d left to clean. With so many of the horses out, it made his work a little easier.

Ham the barn cat reclined in his usual spot atop a bale of hay, oblivious to the world.

“In my next life,” Darys muttered, “I want to be a barn cat at Rider stables.”

Ham flicked his tail but otherwise showed no interest in Darys’ next life.

To Darys’ dismay, it appeared one of the horses had gotten back inside and was standing in the aisle.

As Darys approached the horse, he realized it was no messenger horse, but the silver dappled stallion who had stolen his red cap and turned himself invisible. Currently he was looking in Condor’s stall. Rider G’ladheon had told him the stallion’s name. Where she’d gotten it from or how she knew the stallion, she never did say.

“Valstarian,” he said.

The horse looked at him. Gone was the impish youngster. In his place stood a mature stallion tall and filled out with sleek muscle. Darys was struck by the intelligence in his eyes and his monumental presence.

“Uh, Condor is out in the pasture,” Darys told him, “if you’re looking for him.”

Valstarian flickered his ears, capturing all Darys said, and perhaps more. He huffed and stood unmoving, his head slightly bowed. To Darys, he looked for all the world like he was turning something over in his mind. When he seemed to have come to a decision, he tossed his mane, then stretched around to touch his side with his nose.

Darys slowly approached, and when Valstarian repeated the gesture, he asked, “You got an itch?”

Valstarian blew through his nose and stomped.

Darys reached out to scratch Valstarian’s neck for him, but the stallion laid his ears back.

Darys backed a step. “Guess not.”

Valstarian swung his head back and touched his side again.

“You don’t have an itch. You hurt?”

Valstarian stared at him as if he were simple, then without warning, snapped a mouthful of Darys’ coat sleeve and dragged him down the aisle.

“Hey! Lemme go!” Darys flailed as his boots slid on the floor. Where was Uncle Hep? He thumped on the stallion’s neck, but Valstarian ignored his protests.

“Lemme—”

Valstarian halted and released him.

“What the hells, horse?” Darys immediately backed away and straightened his coat, which now had horse slobber on it. He glared at the stallion.

Valstarian indicated his side again.

This was the strangest horse Darys had ever met, and even though he thought the horse needed to learn some manners, he felt compelled, perhaps by curiosity or something about the horse’s intelligence, to puzzle out what he needed.

“I know you want me to do something, but what?”

It took a moment for Darys to realize Valstarian had dragged him to the tack room door.

The stallion turned in a tight circle, then scraped the tack room door with his hoof.

“You want something in the tack room?”

Valstarian touched his side.

“Grooming kit,” Darys said. “You want me to groom you.” To be honest, the horse looked immaculate, but maybe he liked to be groomed. Some horses did.

The stallion heaved a sigh and cast him a look of utter disgust.

“Well, then, what?”

Quicker than Darys could see it coming, Valstarian snatched his sleeve again and thrust him at the tack room door.

Heart racing, Darys took a deep breath. Untrained stallions could be dangerous, but as lacking in manners as this one was, Darys sensed he would not cause intentional harm. What could happen unintentionally, he didn’t like to think about.

“I get that you want something from the tack room, but not a grooming kit. Bridle?”

Valstarian flicked his tail impatiently.

“A saddle?” Darys asked.

Valstarian whinnied and nudged Darys at the door.

“I guess that’s an ‘aye,’” What a magic horse wanted with a saddle he could not guess. He threw the door open and entered the dark room. “I’m not sure any are big enough for you.”

Valstarian stuck his head through the doorway and sneezed very unmagically.

“Aye,” Darys admitted, “the place could use a good cleaning.”

Messenger horses were not typically big-barreled warhorses. Their specialty was in being swift and able to endure long distances, no matter the conditions. They wore small, lightweight saddles that definitely would not fit Valstarian.

The stallion stomped impatiently.

“Keep your britches on,” Darys told him.

In a dark corner buried beneath saddle pads were some old discarded saddles—saddles with broken trees, missing patches of leather, or just plain worn out. The previous stable master had been something of a packrat, or so he’d heard, and Uncle Hep kept mentioning that the tack room needed a thorough cleaning.

Beneath the lighter saddles was a large one. It was in the style of the others, so it must have been intended for a larger than usual messenger horse in the past. The leather was dry and cracked, dirty, and pocked with several arrowhead punctures. One arrowhead was still deeply embedded in the cantle.

He was not sure it would fit Valstarian. Saddle fitting was tricky business and he was no expert, but he’d see. He grabbed a large, dusty saddle blanket on his way out of the tack room.

Valstarian stepped aside, giving Darys room to slip through the doorway and back into the aisle. He pointed at his side again.

“I know, I know,” Darys said.

He placed the saddle blanket on Valstarian’s back. Valstarian’s hide twitched like he was trying to dislodge a fly. Darys then swung the saddle on his back. It seemed to sit reasonably well, if not perfect. He attempted to tighten the girth, but Valstarian filled his belly with air.

“If you don’t want the saddle to slide off,” Darys told him, “you’ve got to let me tighten the girth.”

Valstarian gave him an apologetic look and let the air go.

When Darys finished, he patted the strange horse on the neck. His hide was soft and the muscle hard beneath. Pretty ordinary, all considered.

“What you need with a saddle I sure don’t know, but if you expect anyone to ride you, you’ll need stirrups and a bridle.”

Valstarian snorted and turned on his haunches, and snatched Darys’ cap between his teeth as he did so.

“Hey!” Darys ran after him as Valstarian trotted back down the aisle and out the big doors, playfully flinging the cap about as he went. He was halfway across the pasture by the time Darys reached the doors. Darys could only watch as the horse vanished into the night.

A fluttering high up on an oak tree caught the corner of his eye. Barely visible in the lantern light emanating from the stable, it was his cap dangling from a branch of a big oak. He’d have to wait for the wind to knock it down sometime.

“Bloody magic horse,” he muttered.

Ham the barn cat stretched and yawned and sat up on his hay bale as Darys returned to his wheelbarrow.

“What you looking at?” he demanded.

Ham simply circled in place and settled back down for another nap.

It all seemed very normal in Rider stables with Valstarian gone, or as normal as it ever got. Messenger horses weren’t magical as far as he could tell, but they weren’t your typical horse-brained horses, either. Gull peered over his stall door with straw stuck in his mane and forelock. He tossed a mouthful into the air and watched it float to the floor before repeating.

Maybe, Darys thought, with a shake of his head, “normal” wasn’t quite the right word.

IN THE GLOAMING OF AN UNKNOWN HOUR

Music filled the Cock and Hen, and Karigan spluttered her ale as Brandall engaged in a rather comical and uncoordinated jig in the space in front of the musicians along with more seasoned dancers.

After all that had happened over the winter thus far, not least the conclusion of her court case, she’d decided it was time to gather some of her available friends among the Riders for a night out to celebrate. Life had been altogether too stressful of late and not just for her.

Mara leaned toward her. “This was a good idea.”

Karigan smiled and sipped the dark bitter ale that was the best in all Sacor City. Even “Rider Perfect,” Ty, looked relaxed, slouched in the corner of their booth nursing his third pint. Life was, at the moment, as it should be, carefree without imminent danger threatening them.

Anna and Gil pointed and laughed at poor Brandall. The other dancers had given him a wide berth, but he looked to be having a grand time, and why not? Who cared what anyone thought? Karigan decisively set her pint on the table and stood to join Brandall.

“Whoa,” she said at the woozy sensation in her head, and she grabbed the table to steady herself. She’d lost count of how many pints she was into.

Her friends teased her as she boldly, if unsteadily, walked through the crowd and clouds of pipe smoke to join the dancing. She didn’t care about the teasing. She was here to have fun. She led Brandall through the steps of a vigorous reel, and they tripped over one another more than actually managed to dance, laughing the entire time. Afterward, they stumbled back to their booth, faces flushed and gleaming with perspiration.

Karigan ordered another round for her and her friends, but Mara and Anna declined, and Ty had the server just top his off, but she, Gil, and Brandall toasted one another with freshly filled tankards.

“To Masters Chester and Winston,” she cried, “the most inestimable law speakers in the lands!” And their tankards clacked together once more.

“Maybe you’ve had enough?” Mara said.

“Not nearly,” Karigan replied.

“Don’t you have arms practice in the morning?”

“Arms . . .” Karigan trailed off, realizing what facing Arms Master Drent would be like with a hangover, but then she shrugged and drained the rest of her tankard. Yes, she’d regret it in the morning, but it was tomorrow’s problem. Right now she felt so good.

All too soon it was time to return to the castle. She climbed into a cab with her friends and wedged herself between Ty and Mara. Six was a squeeze, and she giggled as the cab rumbled and bumped over the cobble streets. She and Brandall launched into a rousing rendition of “The Miller’s Only Daughter” at the tops of their lungs causing consternation among their companions. Anna and Gil covered their ears. Mara and Ty groaned at Karigan’s tone deafness.

“Really, Karigan?” Mara said.

Karigan grinned. Normally she wouldn’t sing with an audience present, but the ale had loosened her inhibitions, and so she treated them to her whole horrid vocal range, or rather lack thereof.

By the time they reached the castle, however, she was yawning and desperate for her bed.

“Thank the gods that’s over,” Mara muttered when she hopped out of the cab.

Karigan linked arms with her as they mounted the steps into the castle. “I thought it was rather fun.”

“You have a one-of-a-kind voice, Helgadorf.”

“I will take that as a compliment.”

“You may take it as you wish.” After a moment of reflection, Mara added, “It’s good to see you having some fun.”

“You, too,” Karigan said. “Connly overworks you. You should delegate more to Tegan.”

“Hah! I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Ty, too. He likes paperwork.”

“Now that’s a thought,” Mara replied.

Ty, who was behind them, grumbled, and Mara and Karigan laughed.

When they entered the Rider wing and reached Mara’s door, Mara said, “Good luck in the morning,” before ducking into her chamber.

Good luck for what? Karigan wondered, then realized her friend referred to attending arms practice with a hangover. Oh, that was going to be fun, fun, fun . . .

She shuffled down the corridor humming to herself before turning the corner and entering her own chamber. She flopped onto her bed, boots, coat, scarf, and all, and more or less passed out.

• • •

A melody wormed into her mind even as she dreamed of dancing, but not that of the boisterous running and leaping about she’d done with Brandall at the Cock and Hen. Like orchestral music but warped and muted as if heard from beneath the water.

One-two-three, one-two-three

Irritated by the familiar rhythm and unable to rid herself of it, she sat up and shivered. She had not tended her fire before dropping into bed and it was dead. Then again, she was not sure if she was awake or still dreaming.

She wanted to lie back down, but the music pulled on her, compelled her to rise as though she had no say in the matter. Fine filaments of glimmering string attached to her limbs and body drew her on, directed her movements, so that she was a puppet to an unseen puppet master.

She left her chamber and walked through empty corridors caught in the gloaming of an unknown hour. Faltering steps led her into the main castle corridor, also empty and silent save for the strain of music she could not resist. It lured her onward, adrift in a fog that filled her head.

Too much ale . . . Yet, she did not feel drunk, just caught in the web of gossamer dreams.

The music did not so much grow louder as more insistent, dragging her along until she found herself standing before the ballroom entrance.

I do not wish to be here, she thought, but she entered anyway, unable to resist.

The unnatural twilight filled the ballroom as she descended the grand stairway. The window the wraith had broken the night of the harvest ball remained boarded up, but the floor, with its checkered pattern of tiles, had been repaired and cleaned, no evidence of death and mayhem marring its surface. It spread before her like a perfect Intrigue board. Her feet carried her across it in a glide. She could not hear her own footsteps.

I should turn around, she thought, but her body would not obey her.

Dream or waking dream, she knew not, but soon she halted at a table with two chairs in the center of the ballroom. An Intrigue board sat upon the tabletop, green game pieces set up on the side closest to her, and smoky gray pieces opposite. They were made of glass, which aroused memory of the one she had found on her mantel months ago, and of the two that had appeared on her desk in her shabby little office in the middle city.

Despite her distaste for the game, she nevertheless pulled out the chair and sat, obedient to whatever power compelled her.

A gray cloud billowed forth and formed into the shape of a man in a gray cloak.

Shawdell. Of course. He was her puppet master.

“Ah, Galadheon.” He pulled out the opposite chair and sat. “So good of you to join me for a pleasant game of Intrigue.”

A PLEASANT GAME OF INTRIGUE

“No.” She had to force the word out as if trying to speak through sleep.

“No? But I set it up special just for you and have expended a great deal of . . . effort doing so. I even gave you the green pieces. We never did have a proper game that one time.”

Six years ago. He’d been aiding the lord-governor of Mirwell and Zachary’s brother, Amilton, in a coup attempt. The encounter introduced her to the strange plane of existence she called the “white world.”

“You are not the Triad this time around as there are only two players. You and me.” He leaned over the board. His azure eyes of fractured glass glistened in the depths of his hood. “This time you are a known entity, not an unexpected player. Yes, I know you quite well now, G’ladheon, my dear auntie. I’ve been watching you.”

In her dreamlike state, her sense of violation and disgust was a distant thing. She tried to shake herself awake, but despite the layers of cobwebs that dulled her perception, she knew it was no dream. “I will not play your games.”

“Pity. I thought I could interest you in willingly participating in an honest match.”

“Nothing is honest with you.”

“Really, now. I may engage in deception, but I do not lie.”

“There is no difference,” she replied. “What is the point of this?”

He shrugged. “I am simply dissatisfied by the outcome of our last game.”

“If you want me dead, why not just kill me?”

“Kill you? No, Galadheon, I thought I made it clear that that’s not at all what I wish. I have a much greater plan, which you rejected in haste. I thought I’d bestow upon you another chance to reconsider.”

“The answer is still no,” she replied.

“That is the trouble with mortals, always so quick to pass judgment without thoroughly considering the possibilities. In the meantime, I just want a little entertainment. What if we raise the stakes? Let’s see if you’d be more willing to play.”

Gray mist cleared behind him and revealed a row of people standing shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed and eyes closed as though they slept on their feet. They were castle folk—maids, soldiers, courtiers, and among them the Weapon Donal and Green Riders, Tegan and Gil. Most wore their night clothes and were barefoot, and looked so very vulnerable, but others who must have been on night duty were uniformed and armed.

“What is this?” Karigan demanded.

“I thought it rather obvious,” Shawdell replied. “They are some of your people.”

“What have you done to them?” she demanded. “What are they doing here?”

“They are in a state akin to sleep,” Shawdell replied, “and under my command.”

“Release them, release them now.”

“Why would I do such a thing? The game would be so dull without them.” He picked up a game piece from the board, an archer. “We begin the game thus.” He moved the archer two squares forward. A corresponding person in the line behind Shawdell, an archer, stepped forward, arrow nocked. He aimed at her.

Fear curdled in her belly. “I thought you didn’t mean to kill me.”

The archer drew his bowstring.

Karigan tensed to dive out of the way.

Shawdell smiled his insufferable smile.

At the last moment, the archer pivoted and loosed his arrow. It soared silently through the air and thunked into some target. She whirled to see where it had gone and was horrified to discover another row of people behind her, also standing shoulder to shoulder. She had not heard them arrive, nor had she perceived their presence. A guard lay on the floor with the arrow in his chest. None of the people standing with him reacted—they all remained bespelled like those who stood behind Shawdell. She leaped out of her seat and rushed to the guard’s side.

Sergeant Keen, she thought with dismay. Blood seeped around the wound. He was dead. Dear gods, no. To Shawdell she said, “This man had a family. A wife, young children.”

Shawdell shrugged, which infuriated her. He didn’t care in the least whom he killed.

She discovered Zachary beside the space where Sergeant Keen had stood. His head was bowed and eyes closed like all the rest.

No, no, no!

“Your move, Green Rider,” Shawdell said, laughter in his voice.

She grasped Zachary’s hands. They were cool and limp and heavy. “Wake up,” she told him. “Oh, please wake up.” She shook and cajoled him, but he did not respond.

Desperately she moved down the line and found Anna, Ty, and Mara among the castle folk. Shawdell meant to use them as life-sized game pieces in a game of Intrigue with real life and death consequences.

She rushed down the line trying to snap them out of the spell that ensnared them. She found Fastion. Weapons wore black nightshirts? Of course they did. She shook him, too, pleaded with him to wake up. He did not. Ty, a few people down the line from Fastion, would not wake up either. She yelled into his face and slapped his cheeks, but to no effect.

She returned to Zachary and shook him again. “Please wake up—it’s Karigan! Please.”

His body seemed to tense and his eyes moved beneath his closed eyelids. His fingers twitched. It was more than she’d gotten from anyone else.

“Wake up!” she cried.

But then his muscles slackened and it was like trying to coax a rock to life.

“Even your mighty king,” Shawdell said, “is no match for my spell.”

She glowered at him. “Release him. All of them.”

“And ruin my game? I think not. Now, if you want some of them to survive,” Shawdell said, “I suggest you make a move. If you do not, you will forfeit your turn on the count of five, starting now. One—”

The archer pulled another arrow from his quiver.

She refused to play along. She always lost at Intrigue, which meant innocents, her people, killing one another for Shawdell’s entertainment. No, she couldn’t let him hurt any of them. Not Zachary, not Ty, not Anna, not Mara. Not any of them.

“Two.”

The archer nocked his arrow.

She thought back again to the day she sat bespelled in her office as two game pieces, just like the ones sitting on the board in front of Shawdell, had appeared on her desk and come to life as if in a dream. An archer and a king.

“Three.”

The archer had killed the king.

“Four.”

“No!” She sprinted across the floor even as the archer aimed at Zachary and drew his bowstring.

She leaped.

“Five!”

She knocked the archer over and looked back. The arrow flew over Zachary’s head. With an exhalation of relief, she disentangled herself from the archer and climbed to her feet, shaken and bruised. The man remained sprawled on the floor and looked to be simply asleep.

“That is not how the game is played,” Shawdell said, “though you do have a knack for throwing yourself into the middle of trouble, which is not at all useful. Your display of love and devotion for your king, however, was diverting if predictable. I wonder if he knows and appreciates all you’ve done for him and his realm.”

“He knows enough.” She strode toward Shawdell, intending to . . . She did not know what. It wasn’t like she could simply throttle him in his current form.

Hastily he pushed another game piece forward, and to her discomfiture, Donal stepped into her path, his bonewood staff at the ready. She jumped back and ducked just in time as the staff hurtled at her head.

“Donal!” she cried. “Wake up!”

His eyes were open but shone like dark pebbles, and his expression was not the granite facade of a king’s Weapon, but blank, almost unrecognizable.

The staff whooshed past her ear as she stumbled aside from another strike. She dodged behind a column and the crash of the staff against it sent a shockwave through her. He stalked her relentlessly across the ballroom as she darted about trying to evade lethal, or, at least, crippling blows. The staff blurred in flawlessly executed forms.

He pushed her to the opposite end of the ballroom, and anxiously she looked for anything she could use to defend herself but found only another table with playing cards upon it and some chairs.

The staff grazed her temple and she stumbled backward too stunned to side-step a jab to her ribs. She gasped and doubled over. Sharp pain stabbed through her rib cage with each breath. Were the bones broken? Or merely cracked?

She could not recover before Donal grabbed her and threw her against a column.

• • •

Her eyes fluttered open. Her head pounded.

Bad hangover, she thought. Really bad. She’d had too much ale at the Cock and Hen.

But then her vision resolved enough to realize ale had nothing to do with it. She was in the ballroom. Donal towered over her, his expressionless face all the more horrible. His staff rushed down on her in a blur. Instinctively she threw her right arm over her head to shield it. Bone snapped. Her scream resonated through the vast space of the ballroom. Blackness claimed her.

• • •

The ceiling slid by overhead, which was very strange, until she realized she was being dragged. Donal’s big hand was wrapped around her ankle as he pulled her across the dance floor.

“Donal,” she whispered.

There was no indication he heard her.

With a suddenness that almost made her pass out again, pain caught up with her. Her pounding head bumped over tiles, her broken forearm trailing behind her. It was not the first time it had been broken, but the memory of that previous injury was hazy. She drew it to her to cradle it to her belly and was sickened to discover bone jutting through her bloody sleeve.

Consciousness dimmed and returned in a muddle of disorientation. Donal had faded into the shadowy background and she lay beside the table that held the Intrigue board. Shawdell stood over her.

“I do not think,” he said, “my father recognized your self-destructive tendencies when he adopted you.”

It took too much energy to reply. Besides, she couldn’t help but kind of agree with his assessment.

“Now,” he said, “will you play the game and make your move, or will you forfeit yet another turn?”

“What happens if I lose?” she asked, though she had a pretty good idea.

“Probably most of these folk will kill one another,” Shawdell replied. “Your king most certainly. And, you will taste of Salvistar’s heart.”

He was back to eating dead god-beings again. “What if I win?”

“Then,” he said, “I will congratulate you and perhaps several of these people will survive, including your king. I will offer, in fact encourage, you to taste of Salvistar’s heart.”

Friends and innocents stood in their rows. Engaging in the game would only lead to more deaths, and those deaths would be on her whether she won or lost. No matter how this went, she would not touch Salvistar’s heart. She glanced back at Zachary. His body shook. He fought the spell, she knew, so he could help her. She could not allow Shawdell to hurt him. Somehow she lurched to her feet, consciousness fading with the effort. She held her broken arm to her and wavered before the table.

“Yes,” she said faintly, and her breath hitched at a sharp pain in her ribs. “I will make a move.”

“I am positively delighted to hear it. Let’s see it.”

She reached across the table, but she did not move a game piece. Instead, she swept her good arm across the gameboard and sent all the pieces flying through the air. Glass shattered on the tile.

And then there was nothing.

“THERE WILL COME A TIME.”

“You look rather more a mess than I initially thought,” Shawdell told Karigan.

The off-key music of an unseen orchestra softly vibrated through the tiled floor of the ballroom she lay curled on and resonated through her nerves—one-two-three, one-two-three . . . Above, the bones of small creatures clinked together with no Earthly air currents.

No longer did they occupy the ballroom on the plane of reality, but this other, its dark reflection.

Shawdell sat upon his throne chair, his gray hood pulled back fully revealing his glass mosaic face with its irregular cracks and edges. Telagioth’s smallsword sat on the armrest, which he picked up and turned over, and otherwise toyed with as if to soothe some agitation.

Every time Karigan moved even a little, steel-edged pain ripped through her arm, and a tear slipped down her cheek from the agony of breathing.

One-two-three, one-two-three

This time there were no dancers, just she and Shawdell.

“The people . . .” she gasped.

“What people?”

“In the ballroom. Donal . . . The others.”

“Oh, those people. I assume they are very confused about why they are assembled in the ballroom at such an hour and why one among them is dead. You ruined the game, which I should have expected, and I brought us here out of . . . self-preservation.”

“Need to go back,” she whispered.

“Say again?”

“Need to go back.”

“Oh, of course. You wish to go home. You suppose there are people there who would miss you, and you no doubt believe you must be there for the all important and inevitable fight against Mornhavon the Black. But look at you. You could not harm a newly hatched chick.”

One-two-three, one-two-three

He leaned forward on his throne chair. “You are just a weak mortal bleeding onto my floor. What my grandfather saw in you to make him adopt you into the House of Santanara, I certainly cannot fathom.”

“Why,” Karigan asked, “have you brought me here?”

“You want to know, in other words, why I torment you so.” He rose from his chair, stepped off the dais, and lowered himself to the floor and stretched out on his side before her. He propped his head on his hand. “Do you recall? I told you a time would come.”

“You wanted my eye,” she murmured. Her vision blurred. When she blinked, the ballroom flickered away for an instant to a blank gray. Not her consciousness fading, though it was not exactly acute at the moment, but to some truth she must understand. She could not seem to make sense of the world around her. Like the strands of energy rooted in Shawdell’s chest that reminded her of a pulsing umbilical cord that stretched endlessly to or from parts unknown. Another, a gray rope of power, adhered to his back. It brought to mind an anchor. Where the anchor lay was impossible to discern for its length also extended beyond perception. She didn’t think she was meant to see these cords of power, but somehow she could.

Might they be illusion? In her present state it was difficult to determine. However, if they were real, she needed to make sense of them. It was important, but she couldn’t say why because it was hard to think.

“Taking your eye,” he said, “would have been shortsighted.” He laughed at his own jest.

She did not join in.

He used the swordtip to lift her eyepatch as he had during her first “visit” to the dark ball.

“Just a peek,” he said.

Her eye throbbed with exploding stars. He gazed at it at length, then let the patch fall back into place. And frowned.

“How disappointing,” he said. “All I saw was my reflection in gray. Perhaps it takes time. In any case, I require you for more than your eye. The offer stands for a remarkable and powerful partnership. Think of it! Together we would conquer Mornhavon and bring peace, prosperity, and security to all the lands.”

He omitted freedom for all the lands from his vision for what they could accomplish.

“All you must do,” he said, “is eat of Salvistar’s heart.” It shimmered in the air between them. It still pulsed, and it was like she could feel it in her own chest. Sweat streamed down her face and burned her eyes. She blinked rapidly, and between blinks, she saw a golden glow emanate from the heart, but she must have been mistaken, for it remained the pulsing organ, no gold sheen, no matter how much she blinked.

Everything here is dream and illusion, she thought, and Shawdell dealt in deception.

“This is my final offer,” Shawdell said. “Eat of the heart, and we’ll embark on a partnership that will bring about an Age never before seen. We can remove Mornhavon’s influence from the world, take the power of Blackveil as our own, restore Argenthyne. I have seen the consequences if you do not, and they are unending darkness for all. Is that the future you wish?”

“Futures can be changed,” she murmured.

His azure eyes sparkled with amusement. She could get lost in them like soaring into the expanse of the sky.

“This one is not so easily changed once Mornhavon releases his legions from beyond the wall.”

She was distracted by another glimpse of gold wafting off the heart. Perhaps it was not an illusion, after all? “What happens to me if I don’t consume the heart?”

“One of two things,” he replied. “I cut out your eye and enjoy your suffering, or I cut out your eye, let you go, and observe while you lose everything and everyone you love to Mornhavon’s wrath. And you will become his plaything.”

“Not a very good choice,” she muttered.

“You could simply take a bite of the heart. No drawbacks, only rewards.”

“What would stop me from ending you if I chose to eat of the heart?”

“Ah, you are less stupid than I thought.”

“What a relief,” she muttered acerbically.

“You saw how easily I controlled your people, yes? I can set a spell to instantly force them to battle one another to the death. All your friends, the one you love. After that, your people would have no chance against Mornhavon without their stalwart king to lead them.” He paused and gazed intently at her. “However, if you join me and leave me unscathed, do as I ask, you are free to defeat Mornhavon and have your king. That does not sound so bad, does it? I am merciful, and we are, after all, kin.”

Battling a symphony of pain, she forced herself onto her knees. She fought to retain consciousness.

“Tell me again,” she said when she caught her breath, “what you would get from this partnership.” She wavered and closed her eyes in an effort to steady herself.

“To become whole,” he said. “To guide the rebirth of our lands and fill them with beauty and magic. To be unfettered.”

“From what?”

He cocked his head as if to evaluate the motive behind her question. “Are you so under the thumb of your king that you do not understand the concept of ascendance of the self? No one above you telling you what to do or holding you back, not even your gods?”

She squinted at him, still seeing, in flashes, the umbilical cord connected to his chest, and the gray rope holding him from behind. She lurched to her feet and almost fell back down. Shawdell stood, as well, and reached out to help her, but she recoiled.

“Have you an answer for me?” he asked. “Will you eat of the heart?”

She staggered to a nearby column and leaned against it to keep upright. “Are you in some kind of a rush?”

“I suppose not,” he said thoughtfully. “Time in this place does not behave in the way one might expect. No, there is no rush, except that I have been awaiting your answer and am growing impatient.”

“It is not,” she said, “the kind of decision one makes lightly.”

Cobwebs wafted around the animal skeletons hanging from the ceiling. Outside the windows, stars and galaxies sparkled. The music of the dance thumped in her chest like a heartbeat.

One-two-three, one-two-three

“You may have noticed,” she said, “I am not at my best at the moment.”

“I have,” he said with a nod. “If you ate of the heart, you would likely be able to heal yourself.”

“Very tempting,” she replied.

Very tempting, her dark self echoed. Dark Karigan flickered into being beside her, in all black as usual.

“I am having trouble thinking straight,” Karigan said. “I simply ask for a little patience.”

“I do not understand what there is to think about,” Shawdell said. “I have been very clear about the outcomes to the choices you make.”

“Easier to think about even small things when your head is not pounding and there is no bone sticking out of your arm.”

“I can see your point.”

“I beg patience,” she said.

“Very well. If Eletians are anything, we are patient.” The tone of his voice, however, had lost any such sufferance.

She gazed around the ballroom and staggered toward the refreshment tables heaped with rotting delicacies and rancid libations. She bumped into a chair and held onto it to maintain her balance.

One-two-three, one-two-three

“Where are your dancers?” she asked.

“There is only us.”

“Not much of a ball,” she murmured.

The heart, still afloat in the air, called to her, pulled on her.

Eat it, Dark Karigan said. No more pain, only the power to rid the world of Mornhavon and make everything good.

“Then you wouldn’t exist,” Karigan pointed out. “Maybe just that would make it worth it.”

Dark Karigan glared at her.

“Why wouldn’t I exist?” Shawdell asked in a perplexed voice.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

Telagioth’s sword gripped in Shawdell’s hand . . . Sweat streamed down her face. There were pieces of a puzzle she was trying to pull together, but they eluded her like a word or name on the tip of her tongue she could not recall. Her reflection in the window stared back at her and, strangely, so did that of Dark Karigan. The heavens behind the glass were vast.

Illusion. It’s all illusion.

The chair scuffed along the floor as she dragged it with her. When she stopped, she leaned against it to rest.

“What are you doing?” Shawdell asked.

“I want to look out the window,” she replied.

“You are a very strange human.”

“I’m sure you’re not the only one to think so.” After she caught her breath, she dragged the chair again, pausing to rest now and then, wondering how much blood seeped from her wounded arm with the effort. “I want to see the world I—we—may rule over,” she said, “if I decide to eat the heart.”

“Aah,” Shawdell said, pleased. “The world is greater than you can conceive, and our power will be endless.”

“Why do you not eat the heart?” she asked him.

“Because I cannot in my current form.”

“That makes sense.” He was a glass mosaic.

She placed the chair before one of the windows and sat in exhaustion. She closed her eyes and rested. The pieces had not quite fallen into place, but they were connected. A sword, a heart, and the energies that bound Shawdell. Shawdell could not eat the heart.

One-two-three

As she rested, she wondered if she had the strength left to do what was needed. She’d had worse injuries, but she was greatly weakened. Her head throbbed. Everything was fuzzy. She just wanted her bed so she could rest.

One-two-three

She smiled as she envisioned dancing with Zachary, his arms around her as they glided across the ballroom floor. The real ballroom. The warmth of his smile, the love alive between them when they were close together. It felt safe. A feeling she wanted to curl up in, but that reality was far away from here. Here, where Shawdell had given her a dire choice. She didn’t like what he had presented.

When she opened her eyes, she watched an enormous chunk of ice and rock tumble past the window, dragging a tail of particles that gleamed in the light of some unseen star.

She stood, determined to make her own decisions and decline the choices Shawdell offered, no matter what it cost her. Her worry was of her waning strength and her ability to carry out her plan.

She leaned on the back of the chair. It felt of real wood, and, yet, intuition told her it was not.

“You can’t eat the heart,” she said to Shawdell, “because of your current form.”

“Yes,” he replied. “It is as I told you.”

His reflection shone in the window behind her own. Her dark self stood off to the side.

“Your current form is glass,” she said.

“What is your point? You did this to me. Your actions and the volatility of magic, and the nature of what you call the white world, changed my form. You shattered me, but you failed to kill me.”

Yes, she recalled that time in the past, the first time he had tried to make her play a game of Intrigue, but she had resolved that problem in her own way, as well.

“I have come to a decision.”

He stepped toward her. “Yes?”

“The chair.”

“The chair?” he asked.

“The chair.”

“I don’t understand,” he replied.

“I choose the chair.”

“What do you mean you—”

Exquisite pain ripped through her ribs as she hefted the chair with her good arm and smashed it through the window.

And broke the universe.

THE GRAY WORLD

Karigan did not know if it was she who screamed, or Shawdell, when the window shattered. The expanse of the heavens and the ballroom, with its little hanging skeletons, were sucked away to nothing, leaving only a gray world. Gray, sandy ground and gray sky. It deadened all other color.

After the exertion of throwing the chair through the window, she dropped to her knees on the verge of blacking out. Neither the window nor the chair existed.

Illusion and deceit.

Shawdell’s soft laughter carried to her. She focused on it to prevent herself from succumbing to unconsciousness.

“Throwing the chair was your decision?” he asked. “I hope destroying my little tableau has made you feel better.”

It had not. The effort cost her.

Dark Karigan shook her head in disgust at her.

This desolate gray world was a land of dusk. Was it forever unchanging like the white world?

Another layer of the world.

Did bridges allow people to cross in and out of this gray place as they did in the white world? Did whisper wraiths drift about the plains seeking magic to feed on?

Salvistar’s beating heart had followed them out of the illusory ballroom and floated above the sand. It might be her imagination, but gold light leaked through parts of the pulsing organ.

The cordlike energies attached to Shawdell flowed unabated in opposite directions, but to where, she still did not know. Perhaps they were infinite.

Shawdell carried the sword of Telagioth, its blade bright despite the deadening quality of the gray world.

Karigan remained on her knees too exhausted to stand. “Do what you’re going to do.”

He swept the sword through the air. “I am generous. I will give you one last chance to taste the god-being’s heart.”

Do it, said Dark Karigan.

Karigan ignored her shadow. “Don’t bother,” she told Shawdell. “If I did as you ask, you wouldn’t make me a partner. You’d use me and discard me when you’d no further use for me.”

“If that is how you feel.”

She knew Eletians were swift, but she did not remember how swift. She barely rolled away in time, crying out at what it did to her arm. Before the blade could fall again, she called on her special ability to fade out and crawled away.

“Not playing fair,” he said, “but you should know that true Eletians have excellent senses beyond sight and we are not so easily fooled.”

She stood and staggered away as he spoke. His head tilted, listening, and sword ready, he tracked her movement, or nearly so. He swept the blade where she stood, but she pivoted and it cut within a hair’s breadth of her. He tried again, but all her evasion training with Drent now served her. As he attacked, she ducked, stepped back, leaned to the side, whatever she needed to do to not get sliced in half or stabbed. Her injuries, however, slowed her reflexes. She was weak and shaky, practically teetering over. The use of her ability worsened the hammering in her head and it grayed her vision in an already gray world. He would have her before long.

Shawdell knew it, too. He paused, nostrils flaring and his eyes wild. “I can hear your breathing. I can smell the blood on you. You may be able to elude me, but soon you will be too weak to move.”

Her special ability, however, made certain objects and energies more vibrant. The heart of Salvistar, still afloat in the air, shone as a golden light. The cords that streamed to and from Shawdell sharpened in her vision, as well. She needed to make a move before she no longer could. She wanted to go home to her horse, cat, friends, and, not least of all, Zachary.

You should have accepted the Gray One’s offer, said her shadow. You would not be in this predicament and you could go home and have your king.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, Karigan thought back at her, too tired to speak aloud.

While Shawdell carried on and boasted, she moved behind him. Watching him slice through the air at nothing might have been amusing under other circumstances, but he could easily turn on her and that would be the end.

He was made of glass, and glass could be broken, but it couldn’t be that easy, could it? When he’d come to her in the real world, he’d no substance when she attacked him. Here in the gray world it was different—she was sure of it. In the hazy vision of her special ability, smokey wisps of magic bound his mosaic form together. If the glass turned out to be illusion and unbreakable, well, at least she had tried. She grasped a sizeable rock.

He spun around, the blade scything toward her. Victory filled his expression. She stepped inside the blow and smashed the rock on his sword arm. Glass shattered. The sword fell to the ground.

A string of exclamations in Eltish flowed from Shawdell’s mouth as his arm disintegrated into tiny pieces and dropped onto the gray earth. Whether expressions of anger or agony, or both, she did not know, and it did not matter.

She swiped the sword off the ground, and just in time because, to her horror, his smashed limb was already reassembling itself. She positioned herself between him and the floating heart.

“You cannot kill me,” he told her.

“I don’t have to,” she replied, and she hacked at the umbilical cord of energy that flowed to his chest.

“No!” he cried. “Let us discuss this like equals we—”

There was not much substance to the umbilical cord and severing it was easy. The other cord of energy that clung to Shawdell snapped him backward. He flew through the air back and back and back, diminishing to but a speck in the distance and his cry fading into nothing until, at last, he vanished beyond the gray horizon and mortal conception.

Karigan panted. Her knees buckled, but the energy of the retracting umbilical cord lashed around her and flung her through a blur of grays. Salvistar’s glowing gold heart rushed in the slipstream with her, only to hurtle by and vanish.

Eventually the force that carried her along waned until it sputtered out entirely and the fulgent starscape of the heavens resolved around her. There she hung suspended in the ether, for how long she did not know, perhaps moments or years or millennia, before she plummeted. The stars changed from sharp pinpoints into luminous streaks.

Falling, falling, forever falling.

She plunged into a white world, but not the white world. A starlit world of snow.

THE APPARITION

Karigan lay in snow. She shivered as much from the cold as shock. Above, the constellations burned bright and sharp in the tapestry of the heavens and seemed close enough to touch. Especially that of Salvistar. Thinking of him reminded her of his heart. She’d glimpsed it flung with her from the gray world, but did not see it anywhere around her. She wondered where it had gotten to, then decided her more immediate concern should be where she had ended up.

Wilderness surrounded her with no sign of candlelit windows, or chimney smoke wafting in the air, or the sounds of humans, just the moan of wind through trees and, in the distance, the hooting of owls in conversation.

It felt like Sacoridia, but the question was, where in Sacoridia? Her body spasmed with even harder shivers. She needed shelter, a fire, to move her body. Something. The pain of simply breathing made it so hard. She curled into a ball, trying to gather the strength and courage to move.

An object shimmered in the snow beside her—Telagioth’s smallsword. She reached for it but screamed for she’d automatically used her broken arm. Her wrist and hand flopped so grotesquely she wanted to vomit.

Must splint.

She splinted her arm with the sword and her belt, loosely wrapping her belt around her forearm and gritting her teeth the whole time. Something about the sword heartened her, easing the process, perhaps its beauty in the glimmering starlight or some ethereal quality of the Elt Wood forged into it. However, when she tightened the belt, the surge of pain sent her screaming into a black abyss.

• • •

She opened crusted eyes and startled some creature, or creatures, into the underbrush. Animals drawn by the scent of blood should have alarmed her more than it did, but pain muddled her thinking.

She continued to tend her arm by making a sling out of her scarf. The sword proved an awkward splint, but at least it wasn’t a longsword. Her hand rested on the hilt and the tip jutted beyond her elbow. She hoped she didn’t end up accidentally stabbing herself.

She needed to get on her feet, start walking, try to find civilization, but she couldn’t make herself. Numbed by the cold and hurting, she just wanted to rest, to sleep. Even the rustling in the underbrush, the almost imperceptible step of paws in the snow drawing closer, was not enough to make her rise.

“Get up, girl,” said a familiar voice. “This is not the time to be lying about.”

A woman, translucent in form, stood over her.

“Aunt Stace?”

“Get up. There’s no use feeding yourself to the wolves.”

“Is it really you?” Karigan asked.

“Get up, Kari.”

She recalled many a cold winter morning when Aunt Stace would prod her to get out of bed to start the day. “Get up, Kari, a new day has begun and you don’t want to miss it.” She flashed back to huddling beneath the warmth of her blankets and the tempting aromas of breakfast drifting into her chamber, and of Aunt Stace at the hearth stirring the embers of the fire to warm the room.

Grief caught in Karigan’s throat. This was not one of those mornings, and now she dreamed, or imagined, the apparition of her dead aunt standing over her.

Aunt Stace looked off into the distance to an unseen world beyond the sight of the living. When she glanced down at Karigan, her eyes were like the sparkle of stars. “You must get on your feet.”

Wolves howled.

“You left us. You left me!” Sorrow had turned to anger and Karigan’s tone was edged with accusation. Aunt Stace vanished. “Wait!” Karigan cried. “I’m sorry—please come back!”

“I have not left you, Kari girl,” Aunt Stace said. Her luminous figure reappeared among the trees in the distance.

“I miss you,” Karigan whispered.

“I know.”

“Why did you have to leave?”

“Eventually we all must, child. It is the way of the universe. Even gods may fade and pass. It was my time, but it is not yours. Now come along.”

Karigan did not move. “No.”

“You are as stubborn as your father.” Aunt Stace walked away through the woods.

“Don’t leave me again,” Karigan said in a quavering voice, but Aunt Stace did not answer.

Numb, shivering, and exhausted, but not willing to be left behind, Karigan staggered to her feet, jolting her arm in the process, which ignited fire through her various hurts, and she stumbled after Aunt Stace. She slipped and slid on the uncertain terrain hidden beneath the snow. She was semi-aware of feral eyes watching, of being stalked, but the wolves did not attack.

“Don’t fall behind,” Aunt Stace called back to her.

No matter how Karigan tried to catch up, Aunt Stace was always well ahead. Karigan forced herself to pick up her pace, but it still was not good enough.

She tripped over a branch concealed beneath the snow, fell, and slid down a hill jostling her injured arm. When she came to a stop, she shook her head and groaned. Her makeshift splint had shifted. With a cry, she adjusted it and tightened the belt further.

Aunt Stace stood before her, gazing into the heavens.

“Are you real?” Karigan whispered. “Or, am I imagining you?”

“He is young and confused,” Aunt Stace murmured, “and so inexperienced.”

“Who?” Karigan demanded.

Aunt Stace’s gaze dropped to Karigan. “Do get up, Kari. You must keep moving.”

“I don’t want to. I am so tired.”

“Often we must do what we’d rather not wish to do.”

Karigan wanted to sob like an overtired child but hadn’t the energy. “Why do these things happen to me?”

Aunt Stace’s translucence made her expression difficult to read. “Oh, my dear child, the gods have burdened you. You carry the weight of the world. If I could lift it from your shoulders, I would, but you are not entirely a victim of fate. We are all complicit in the course our lives take. You are who you are, and you must carry on.”

“I don’t think I can.”

Wolves howled, some close, others farther away.

“We have not the time for this,” Aunt Stace said. “You must get back on your feet.”

“I want to rest. I’m tired, tired of everything and having to carry on. It’s all I do. Carry on. Just for once, I’d like to rest.”

Aunt Stace placed her hands on her hips. “Karigan Helgadorf G’ladheon, if only you could hear yourself. Yes, much has been placed on your shoulders, but you are not the only one. Over the span of all humankind, many have carried burdens as heavy, or heavier. Now is not the time to wallow. You are better than that.” Suddenly she whirled. “Shoo!”

The wolf that had crept close must have sensed the apparition’s presence for it yiped and slunk away.

“G’ladheons do not quit,” Aunt Stace continued. “We do what we must, and time is running out.” She started to ascend the hill, leaving no footprints in the snow, and did not wait to see if Karigan followed.

Karigan marshalled any strength remaining to her and climbed to her feet. She trudged up the hill, trudged forever, so it seemed, unaware of her surroundings, and only peripherally aware of the wolves tailing her. Aunt Stace was like the flash of a beacon, always ahead, always drawing her forward.

“I wish you could move faster,” Aunt Stace said. “My time with you is short, and your time may be short, as well.”

“You can’t leave me,” Karigan said. “Not again.” Then more hopefully, “You could take me with you.”

Did Aunt Stace look sad?

“You are not thinking straight, dear girl. I do not belong here, and you do not belong there. Not yet.”

Now Karigan sobbed. First her mother had left her, then her father had deserted her to go to Varos, and now Aunt Stace was going to abandon her for the second time.

The walk and cold had taken their toll. Karigan only inched ahead, beyond numb, and she did not care. She simply wished to rest and forget.

“Please,” Aunt Stace said, “keep moving.”

Karigan dropped to her knees. “I can’t.”

“You must.”

“You are not real.”

“That is no way to speak to your aunt.”

“Take me with you when you go.” Karigan toppled to her side and folded into herself.

“Karigan Helgadorf—”

Karigan allowed peace to blanket her.

“Damnation,” Aunt Stace muttered.

Had Karigan ever heard her use foul language? She turned deaf to all else, to the cajoling, pleading, demands, and orders. She heard something about wolves growing bolder, and what would King Zachary do without her? They were mates, their hearts true to one another. Should he lose her, it would destroy him. Even thought of Zachary failed to stir her. She just wanted peace.

A part of her was nevertheless aware of the wolves closing in and snuffling around her. Her mind thickened with a haze, and she didn’t care about anything, not even the wolf that snarled and slavered so close by.

However, the rhythm of galloping hooves rumbled through the earth, right through her.

“Finally,” said Aunt Stace, “and just in time.”

The ground shook with the trampling of hooves around Karigan, their thud as they impacted wolves. The wolves yowled and cried and scampered, and a tremendous wind blew over her.

Shaper of wind. That’s what they called Salvistar, but Salvistar was dead. He had abandoned her, too.

“Get up, Kari,” Aunt Stace said.

“You’re just a dream,” Karigan mumbled.

The imagined horse lipped her hair. She swatted it away which was answered by a surprised horsey grunt. The horse then clenched the collar of her coat with its teeth and shook her. The reawakening of pain forced her to full awareness. A stallion whiffled in her face. They were nose-to-nose.

“Valstarian,” she murmured.

He shook his mane.

“He will carry you home,” said Aunt Stace. “And you, young fellow,” she told the stallion, “need to help. She can’t mount in this condition.”

Valstarian stomped a large forehoof.

“Now don’t you stomp your foot at me,” she told him. “Your papa wasn’t too proud to assist. He had proper manners.”

Valstarian switched his tail but complied and lowered himself to the ground beside Karigan. Now at the end of her endurance, she’d only will enough to get herself up onto his back and sit on what appeared to be an old style Green Rider saddle. When she was secure in her seat, Valstarian rose to his feet.

Aunt Stace looked up at her. “You must find Westrion’s heart, Karigan, or Valstarian will never come into his own. Do you hear me? Westrion cannot help you until you bring him his heart. He is too weak.”

Karigan nodded, only half-hearing.

“I love you, my girl, and am so proud of you. Remember I am with you always.”

“No, don’t leave—”

But Aunt Stace was already gone. Maybe she had never been there in the first place.

“Take me home,” she told Valstarian.

He glanced back with a shining eye before bounding off into the snow. She clung to his mane—he had no bridle, no reins. Icy air stung her cheeks. Did they fly, or did it only seem as if they did? He emitted warmth that melted frostbite from her extremities, but it came with the unfortunate side effect of a burning sensation that surged all the way to her toes and fingertips. His smooth strides and rhythmic hoofbeats soothed her, however.

“Take me home,” she murmured, “so I can rest. I want to go to bed.”

DREAM GATHERED

“Karigan . . .”

She swatted at someone’s hand that was brushing loose strands of hair out of her face. “Leave me alone.”

She was having a very nice time with her pillow. So tired was she that few dreams interrupted her sleep.

“Karigan?”

She ignored the pleasant but persistent man’s voice and yanked the blanket over her head.

• • •

Birdsong and sunshine flowed through the tall windows with fresh summer air. She lay languidly under the covers and gazed at Zachary beside her. He leaned back against pillows he’d propped behind himself and was reading through a pile of papers. The light glowed in a golden nimbus around him, and she enjoyed studying the line of his cheekbone, the slant of his nose, his muscular shoulders and chest.

He smiled at her. “You’re finally awake, dearheart?”

Something was off. Some of the waves of his amber hair had turned white, and white streaked his beard. He wore a pair of specs perched on the end of his nose, and more lines creased his face. He gazed at her with brown eyes that were deep and wise. How the hells had he aged so quickly?

An even better question was, what was she doing in his bed?

“What’s going on?” she demanded, floundering beneath the covers.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his smile fading.

“What the hells am I doing here?” Her arm was splinted, and not with a sword, but properly, the way a real mender would do it. It didn’t even hurt.

“Sleeping? At least sometimes.” The smile returned.

“This is not right. You’re not right.”

He furrowed his brow. “Are you feeling well? Is it the dreams again?”

“I’m seeing things.”

“Karigan—”

“I need to go to my own chamber . . .” She struggled with the covers.

“Karigan, you gave up your chamber years ago. You’ve slept by my side for—”

Hopelessly entangled, she fell off the bed and hit the floor with a resounding thump, and everything turned dark but for star-like patterns of light that flickered all around her cast, she saw, by a lantern of punched tin.

She hesitantly rose to her feet on the cold flagstones. This was not Zachary’s chamber, she thought, both in relief and trepidation. It had been a dream, after all, but now the unmistakable sensation of awakening was upon her. The grit of pebbles and sand stuck to the bottoms of her feet, and air currents curled about her ankles and rustled the hem of her nightgown.

“What is going on? Where am I?” The hollow space around her absorbed her voice. She looked up, but the dark beyond the lanterns glow was total. She sensed the air above her was empty like a tower lacking upper floors.

It must be a trick of Shawdell’s, she thought. It had to be. She hadn’t sent him reeling in that gray world, after all.

A soft footstep drew her attention to the lantern again. “Who’s there?”

A figure in silhouette appeared before her.

Karigan looked about herself for some weapon, but it was too dark.

“You did something to your arm,” said a girl’s voice.

Karigan protectively drew her arm to herself. “Who—?”

“I hope it hurt. A lot. You killed my grandmum.”

Karigan, now fully awake, said, “Lala?”

“I will have vengeance,” the girl said.

“What? I didn’t kill your grandmother.” Carefully she approached the girl. There was no metallic gleam of a weapon, but that did not mean Lala was not dangerous.

They were about eye level face-to-face, and Karigan realized Lala stood on a stool.

“Where am I?” Karigan demanded. “How did you bring me here?”

“This is the sorcerer’s tower,” Lala replied. “That’s what they call it, but it’s nothing special. Just a big old tower.”

This was not making any kind of sense.

“I used the draugmkelder,” Lala said.

“The what-kelder?”

“Draugmkelder. The dream gatherer.”

This explained nothing. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you know anything?” Lala demanded with an impatient huff. “You killed my grandmum and I will have my vengeance.”

“For the last time—” Karigan began.

Lala’s fist shot out of the dark so fast Karigan didn’t see it coming. The shock sent Karigan stumbling away covering her nose with her hand.

“Ow, ow, ow! What the hells? Damnation!”

“I only bopped you in the nose,” Lala said. “Be happy I didn’t make you pee tadpoles.”

“Tadpoles?” Flowing blood and what Karigan believed was a broken nose muffled her voice.

Lala hopped off her stool and went to the lantern and took it off its hook. The light that beamed through its tiny holes speckled her face. She gave Karigan a satisfied look, opened the lantern’s door, and the flame hissed and sputtered, and died of its own accord.

“Would the lady like me to draw a bath?” asked a gentleman.

Karigan sat up in the dusky light and tasted blood. “Ow, ow, ow!”

“Oh, dear,” the man said. “You are bleeding. Let me get you a cloth.”

Hand cupped beneath her nose to catch the blood, she peered through the dim light after the retreating figure and wondered what the hells Zachary’s valet was doing in her room.

Then she began to assess “her” room, the fineness of the bed linens, her fluffy and wonderful pillow that was now bloodstained, the rug on the floor, half-seen tapestries on the walls, and the tiled hearth. This was not her chamber, nor did it look like any of those in the Rider or mending wings, but it was vaguely familiar.

“Where the hells am I?” she murmured.

A door opened and closed and someone hastened into the room.

“Karigan?” he said urgently. “Artos says you’re bleeding—what happened?”

She froze. His voice was unmistakable. She searched through the dim light and her gaze fell upon Zachary approaching. A terrier trotted beside him and jumped onto the bed looking expectantly at her with black button eyes. This Zachary looked the age he was supposed to be. A different dream than the one before? But if it was a dream, how did her nose hurt so much?

“Did you do something to yourself in your sleep?” He tugged a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and handed it to her. She gingerly applied it to her nose.

Artos, the valet, reappeared with cloths and a basin of water for her. He set the basin on the bedside table.

“Do you need help, my lady?” Artos asked, “in staunching the blood?”

“No,” she replied.

“Artos,” Zachary said, “could you please send a runner to fetch Mender Simeon?”

Artos bowed and left them. The terrier bounded onto her lap and started licking her cheek.

“Finder!” Zachary said. The terrier subsided and lay down beside Karigan against her legs. “I think he smells the blood.”

“At least he’s not a wolf,” she muttered.

“What?”

“This is not my chamber,” Karigan said. “Not even the Rider wing.”

“Well, it is at the moment,” Zachary replied, “for at least one Rider.”

“What am I doing here? Am I here?”

“You are, and it’s actually quite a mystery as to how you ended up in my bed.” He grinned. “The Weapons are confounded that you somehow slipped by them.”

Her mouth worked but no words came out.

“I was sound asleep,” he continued, “but I awoke when I got cold because someone had stolen all the blankets. I was surprised, to say the least, but not displeased, to find an unexpected companion in bed with me.”

Karigan was mortified. She blushed so hard it hurt her bloody nose. “I swear, I didn’t . . . I don’t know how.”

“Don’t worry, nothing unseemly has come of it. I had Mender Simeon come down to check on you, and I moved to a guest chamber. You were in, shall we say, rough condition.”

“I don’t remember any of this,” she replied.

“Mender Simeon used his ability to heal your arm a good deal since it was a nasty break. Meanwhile, you fought us and told us to leave you alone. You also told us how much you loved your pillow.”

Her coat with its bloody and rent sleeve hung nearby over the back of a chair, and her boots stood next to it. She looked under the covers and found herself in her nightgown and wondered who had changed her clothes. She decided not to ask.

“It’s all so foggy,” she said.

“Several of us had a rather odd night,” he told her.

Ben arrived before Zachary could explain and looked her over. “Only you can break your nose while sleeping.”

“I didn’t break it! Lala did.”

Ben and Zachary answered her with stunned silence.

“Perhaps,” Zachary said after a moment, “you would like to explain how Lala did that.”

Karigan did so as Ben used his ability to align her broken nose. “She called the lantern a drom . . . Drom-kelder.”

“Draugmkelder,” Zachary said. “I believe we have one tucked away in the tombs. It is said to have the ability to pull someone to a place through their dreams either as a wispy figment or full bodied. I wonder where Lala would have gotten hold of such an artifact. They are extremely rare.”

“You mean, it really could’ve happened?” Karigan asked.

“Sounds that way,” Zachary said.

It reassured her to know she really hadn’t, somehow, punched her own nose.

“You are lucky,” he continued, “that all she wanted to do was punch you. She could have done far worse.”

“That’s what she said.”

“At least we know she is still alive,” Zachary said, “though it is concerning she can get her hands on objects like a draugmkelder.”

Ben tilted her head back and touched the tip of her nose with a glowing finger. Warmth spread through it and into her cheeks. Some of the pain dissipated.

“You’ll still be swollen and bruised, and you’ll likely be the butt of many jests,” he said, “but I staunched the blood and realigned the bone.”

“Thank you.”

He cleaned up the blood on her face, then placed his hand atop her head. “Just checking to make sure the nose injury didn’t worsen anything else we’ve already fixed.” A similar warming washed through the crown of her head, down her spine, and into her extremities. It was pleasant and she sighed when it faded.

Ben collected his mender’s satchel and said, “You need rest. The mending you’ve had will make you drowsy, so that should help. But when you are up, you need to wear this sling.” He showed her a cloth and then laid it on the foot of the bed.

Karigan rose and grabbed her coat and boots to leave with him.

“Rider G’ladheon,” Zachary said, “we’ve more to discuss.”

Ben bowed and left, leaving Karigan to watch after him.

“Relax,” Zachary said. “Have a seat.”

She sat on his bed once more, feeling a little self-conscious.

He pulled up a chair for himself. “What happened to you last night?”

“We went to the Cock and Hen,” she said.

“If you hadn’t been in so bad a condition,” he replied, “I might have made a joke about tavern brawls. Surely that isn’t the case?”

“No, no. We came back to the castle and I went to bed, I guess, but then I was drawn to the ballroom. Shawdell was there wanting to play Intrigue.” She looked sharply at Zachary. “You are well?”

“Yes, entirely well. Maybe bruised, from a fall, as were others. I have a feeling you’re about to reveal why several of us woke up in the ballroom and one man lay dead.”

She told him the story at length, including as many of the details as she could recall.

His expression turned pensive. “It’s coming back to me, like part of a dream, you calling to me, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t reach you, no matter how hard I tried. I was frightened for you and determined to help, but I just could not move, wake up under the spell.”

She took his hand in hers. It was warm and his grip sure. “I know you did. Out of everyone I tried to awaken, only you responded at all.”

“Still, I do not think I can forgive myself,” he said, “for failing you.”

“There is nothing to forgive. Shawdell, even in his diminished state, was still powerful.” She squeezed his hand. “I regret not having been able to prevent the death of Sergeant Keen.”

“As you’ve said,” Zachary replied, “Shawdell was powerful. It is not on you, nor the man who killed him. We know who it was. The archer identified his own arrow. He will not be punished since he was not directly responsible for the sergeant’s death. He’s taking it hard.”

Karigan could only imagine.

“Can you tell me who injured you?” he asked.

“I’d rather not say. Shawdell used us all like puppets for his entertainment, and I don’t want this person to feel guilty for something they weren’t responsible for.”

Zachary nodded. “I understand. Let us hope Shawdell is forever stuck in that gray world.”

“I have a feeling,” she replied, “we won’t be hearing from him again. I think that the one cord of energy, the one I cut, was a holdfast that allowed him to slip into our world. It was attached here somehow, somewhere, but no longer. The other one seemed to keep him anchored in the gray world where he could hide, or perhaps it held him against his will. Just a theory.”

She told him of the aftermath of the apparition of her aunt in the snow. He listened silently and sympathetically.

When she finished, he stroked his beard thoughtfully and said, “Westrion’s heart. Never have I heard of gods having hearts. This is all so unprecedented. Have you any idea where it is?”

“None at all,” she replied.

“There will have to be a formal report, excepting the part about the gods,” he said, “though it can wait. All this does not explain the mystery of how you ended up in my bed.”

How might it have been, she wondered, if he’d stayed in the bed with her? She warmed and cleared her throat and forced the thought from her mind. “I don’t know. I think I told Valstarian I wanted to go home and to bed. I . . . I didn’t specify which bed.”

“Not consciously, perhaps,” Zachary said with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Valstarian,” she muttered. God-being or not, he was a brat who deserved a tongue lashing when she saw him again. “Valstarian is a bit more mischievous than his sire.”

Her face ached and she was tired after Ben’s ministrations, or perhaps because of them. He’d only used a touch of his ability to help her nose, but had apparently done a good deal of work on her arm to unnaturally accelerate her body’s healing response. Usually he left a patient’s body to heal at a natural rate after an initial, minimal treatment to spur it along.

“You’re exhausted,” Zachary said. “I should let you rest. You are welcome to stay as long as you like.”

“Uh . . . I think I’d like to return to my own chamber.” Actually, she thought the opposite, but she didn’t want to give anyone additional gossip fodder. Artos would certainly be discreet, but who knew who had observed what?

He smiled. “Of course. Should I send someone to help you dress?”

“I’ll figure it out,” she said.

He nodded. “Very well. I have work to attend to, but don’t hesitate to call upon Artos in need.”

“Th-thank you.”

He bent down and cupped her chin. “Ben was right about your poor nose. It is swelling impressively.”

She frowned. That was just great.

He kissed her gently so as not to accidently hurt it. “I am so very glad you are safe. You are my heart.” And then he was off with Finder on his heels.

His words brought back what Aunt Stace had said about their hearts being true to one another, that should he lose her, it would destroy him. The reverse, she thought, would apply, as well. Losing him did not bear thinking about.

She was tremendously weary, and if she was to reach her own chamber, she had to get going before she was tempted to nest in Zachary’s bed. She dressed best as she could with only one good hand. It turned out the menders had cut the sleeves of her coat, shirt, and sweater so they fit more easily over her wounded arm. She used the sling as ordered, stuffed her feet into her boots, and was sorry about the bloody pillow and linens she was leaving behind for Artos to take care of, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Telagioth’s sword had been left with her clothes and she took it into her good hand.

She desired to leave unnoticed, it potentially being perceived as inappropriate to leave a king’s personal quarters in the morning, but it was not to be. Naturally the Weapons stood guard at the main entrance and she had expected them, but she hoped no one else would be around. Unfortunately, the castle had awakened for the day and the corridor bustled with servants, officers, and administrators, several of whom wanted entrance to the king’s quarters.

“Oh, gods,” she said when she stepped through the door.

Weapon Erin leaned down and whispered in her ear. “What did you do to your nose?”

“I didn’t do anything to my nose.”

“It’s impressive.” Even more quietly she whispered, “You will explain to us how you bypassed us and got into the king’s rooms unseen. We would have known even if you had used your ability.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she told Erin.

As for the teeming corridor, she must look a mess in her rumpled and blood-stained civilian clothing, and her hair had escaped her braid and fluttered in her face. There was a good chance her rather rough appearance would keep people from assuming she was Zachary’s courtesan or anything like that.

She rushed down the corridor and did not look back.

AN OLD SADDLE

Over the following days, Karigan was given time off to recover from her injuries. At first she enjoyed bundling herself beneath her blankets and reading novels with a cup of tea at her side.

Soon she grew restless, however, and left her chamber, wearing the very annoying sling as Ben required. Her fellow Riders were too busy to play games in the common room. When she wandered down to the chapel to visit Brother Leon, he had his hands full with a needy parishioner, so she lit another candle for Aunt Stace.

“You kept me alive,” she murmured. “I miss you, but I know you are still with me.”

Back in her chamber she couldn’t even work on Rider accounts. She might be able to fight with a sword left-handed, but she couldn’t write legibly left-handed, so Mara had passed the ledgers on to Ty, who did not thank Karigan.

She’d go to the field house to work her left arm with some sword practice, but Ben had forbidden it. She was afraid she was going to fall behind on her training, but there was little she could do about it. There was, as far as she was concerned, only one other option for keeping herself occupied—a visit to Rider stables. She couldn’t muck out stalls, but she could pet all the horses, even Maddie. Her decision made, she put her coat on, or at least the left side, and draped the right over her shoulder.

When she reached stables, she discovered, to her disappointment, all the horses were out either on errands, or in the pasture. Condor visited her at the fence, but then ran off with his friends, tossing his head and bucking like a colt.

She stepped into stables to warm up and paused to pet Ham the barn cat. He greeted her with a crooked tail and resounding purr. At least someone was willing to spend time with her.

To her surprise, she found Hep and Darys by the tack room with all kinds of gear piled in the center aisle.

“That’s some nose you got there, Rider,” Darys said.

“Uh, thanks,” she replied.

Ben had prophesized she’d get all kinds of comments about her broken nose and he hadn’t been wrong. It remained swollen and she’d bruises under her eyes. It was not a pretty sight and she avoided mirrors.

“What are you two up to?” she asked.

She learned they had gotten it into their heads to thoroughly clean the tack room while they had some time and they pulled her into the process to sort bits and pieces of leather into piles—one for gear that could be repaired and reused, and another for discards beyond help.

She sneezed repeatedly as they disturbed multiple layers of dust and dirt. They found some very odd pieces of moldering tack in the dark corners, including an unusually large messenger saddle that Darys pulled out. He paled.

“Are you all right?” she asked, tossing a rusty bit onto the discard pile.

“This is the one I put on him.”

“Him who?” Hep asked.

“The magic horse.” Then he whispered, “Valstarian.”

Karigan studied it. She hadn’t paid much attention to the saddle the stallion had been wearing when he carried her from the wintry grip of the countryside to the castle, but it did look familiar. She refrained from mentioning she’d sat in it. Darys knew she’d ridden Valstarian before, but bringing up her latest ride would inevitably lead to more questions about who and what Valstarian was, and why she got to ride the “magic horse.”

“Here’s where the arrowhead is stuck in it,” Darys said, pointing at the puncture in the leather. “How’d the saddle get back?”

That was a good question, she thought. Probably the same way she’d ended up in Zachary’s bed. She was not going to mention that either.

“He’s a magic horse,” Hep said. “I s’pose he could put it back himself.”

“But I had to put it on him.”

Hep shrugged. “Some things are not meant to be known, especially when it comes to magic. Mysteries keep life interesting.”

That was, Karigan thought, a fine answer. It was very true, and an excellent way to keep people from asking unanswerable questions.

Darys set the saddle over a stall door and Karigan wiped it down with a rag, wondering about its age. It certainly needed to be thoroughly cleaned and oiled.

“I wonder whose saddle this was,” she said.

“No idea,” Hep replied. “I’ve never seen a messenger horse it would fit. Made for a draft cross or a warhorse maybe.” He examined the cracked leather. “Old enough to be before my time.”

Darys stepped out of the tack room, gagging, his face crinkled in disgust.

“What is it, lad?” Hep asked.

“Dead rat, all dried up like.”

“Well, get it out of there.”

Karigan suppressed a laugh at Darys’ horrified expression.

At that moment, a Green Rider entered the stables leading her horse.

“It’s Fern and Blackbird,” Karigan said. She and Hep went to greet Rider Fern Hale while Darys dealt with the rat.

“We weren’t expecting you back until spring,” Karigan told Fern. “Surely the mountain passes can’t be open.”

“Likely not,” Fern said. “I got lucky and we were able to find a ship to bring us to Corsa.”

It wasn’t Karigan’s business to ask particulars about Fern’s message errand to Coutre Province, but she could ask general questions about her health, the journey, weather, and how things were in Coutre.

“Wet,” Fern said, placing the strap of her message satchel over her shoulder. “It rained the whole time I was there, and it’s a cold winter rain.” She shivered. “Hey, it looks like you’ve been through something since I’ve been gone. What the hells did you do to your arm and nose?”

“Long story.”

“As usual,” Fern said with a laugh. “We need to catch up over some ale. I’ve missed the Cock and Hen.”

Karigan smiled. She hadn’t been back since the night she had faced Shawdell.

“I’ll get Blackbird settled,” Hep told Fern, and he led the mare down the aisle. Fern watched after him for a moment before pulling Karigan aside and saying in a hushed tone, “It’s not just raining in Coutre.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember that thing Alton supposedly said last fall when everyone thought he was dying?”

Karigan nodded. Dragons will come.

Fern glanced down the aisle to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “There was talk all over Midhaven Harbor about sea monsters and dragons.” Midhaven was the seat of Lady-Governor Coutre. “In fact,” she continued, “I think that’s part of the message Lady Coutre sent back with me, to tell the king about dragons.”

“He’s already heard something about that from Lord Arey’s people,” Karigan replied. “You don’t think it’s just superstition or something else that people are seeing?”

“No,” Fern said, her eyes alight. “I saw one.”

A prickling tingled down Karigan’s spine.

“We were a few hours at sea,” Fern continued, “when I saw one flying quite a distance off. The ship’s captain let me have a look through his spyglass. I still couldn’t see the details, but the shape and wings, the spouting of fire? I have never seen the like—it was amazing.”

Fern sounded more excited than frightened by the sighting.

“Probably you should keep that to yourself unless the king says otherwise,” Karigan said.

“I know, I know. I just couldn’t wait to tell someone. The only others I talked to about it was the crew because they’d seen it, too. But there are already rumors in Corsa Harbor from other ships so it’s no secret, and I’ll let the king know about that, as well. Glad to be home, in any case.”

Fern departed, and Karigan watched Darys, his face pinched in disgust and a shovel held as far as possible in front of him, step from the tack room and head down the aisle, presumably to dispose of the desiccated rat.

“It was stuck to the floor,” he complained to his uncle.

“Be strong, lad,” Hep replied.

The sightings and rumors of dragons Zachary had heard about had not been first person accounts, but now they had an actual eyewitness, a reliable one. A Green Rider.

Dragons will come, indeed, she thought. Dragons and Mornhavon the Black. She shook her head. Perilous times lay ahead and it was going to be a wild ride.

RIPPLES IN THE FABRIC OF THE WORLD

“FAILED.”

Lichant prostrated itself on the moist, dark ground before the drifting mist that was its master. “We succeeded in weakening the wall, but the Deyer interfered, and the song of the wall spirits has been replenished and grown strong again.”

“Rise,” said the hundred thousand voices of the Great One. “Rise. You are too valuable a servant to needlessly destroy, and a comrade of old.”

Lichant obeyed, showing no relief or joy at this reprieve. Had the Great One ordered it to cut its own throat, it would have done so without argument or hesitation.

“I sense ripples in the fabric of the world,” the Great One said, “that will culminate in a great wave. In the west, my old foe, Santanara, is awake and his thoughts bend my way. He strives to divine what is in my mind.

“Another power, both old and new, has awakened in northeastern waters.” Many of the Great One’s voices hushed. “A power that came from the sea and held sway in these lands long before my arrival. The clans called them sea kings, but the sea kings called themselves Acualeng. The lands still reek of their blood, even diluted by centuries upon centuries by the primitives of the clans. This power, new and old, is the last of its kind, the last sea king. Whether he will be a rival or an ally is yet unknown. We will wait and WATCH. PREPARE.”

“What are your wishes regarding the Galadheon?” Lichant asked.

A gleaming ebon serpent slithered beneath the underbrush nearby and slipped into its burrow.

“She will come here in time,” the Great One replied. “Yes, she will come to me in time.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Crafting a novel is largely a solitary endeavor, but bringing it to readers is a team effort and I am thankful to every single person who has made it possible over the years.

A big thank you to my beta readers Melinda Rice-Schoon and Laura Laubach-Richardson who helped me make this book better.

As always, to my fabulous book mom, Betsy Wollheim, who has guided me through the publication of all these books and survived reading the horrendously long original manuscript of this one.

My agents Russ Galen, Danny Baror, and Heather Baror-Shapiro.

Donato Giancola for another spectacular cover painting for the Green Rider Series.

The team at Astra Publishing/DAW for all the work they do behind the scenes to produce wonderful books.

Copyeditor, Annaliese Jakimides for her light touch and years of friendship.

The Team Meep Squirrel Scurry: Laura Laubach-Richardson, Megan Notman, Melinda Rice-Schoon, Delacey von Busse, as well as the extended Team Meep family: Jessica Bryers. Pascal Doisteau Frérot, Barbara and Steve Moody, Brian Richardson, Laura Schroeder; and Meep family helpers: Lyzz Bartlett, Vee Curtis, and Chay Mesi. Team Meep has helped me with social media activities, event planning, and more, and have become good friends.

Additionally, thank you to Kristina Bishoff and Madeline Shayne for running another successful book soundtrack and artbook Kickstarter for The High King’s Tomb! (The soundtrack will be available in the places where you usually download music.) This is the last Green Rider book soundtrack they are doing, but their artistic endeavors continue—follow them on social media to see what’s new.

In relation to Kickstarter funding, thank you to Mead Humble for the use of her name (it’s an awesome name!), and Michelle Brenner for suggesting Gull as the name of a messenger horse.

I cannot thank my Patreon subscribers enough for their support of me and my work over the past few years. Their contributions have been essential during the bleak periods when it takes me too long to write a book and there are bills to pay! I acknowledge them here in no particular order: Shannon Mikaela, Kelly Christian, Jan Moore, Kathi Springman, Kate Cuchens, Amanda Benson, Melinda Rice-Schoon, Abby Tracy, Mary Fye, Ana-Elizabeth Arnao, Kris, Glen Notman, Kathy Grant, Lyzz Bartlett, Madbiologist, Em, Matt Weber, Shakota Petrie, M Kikstra, Alisha Deters, Heather Robinson Lindsey, Steve Moody, Carna Steimel, Bethany Sheffer, Rebecca Brazier, Emily Mast, Lisa Wells, Catherine Kidd, Eve Ruff, Ted Hart, Pascal Doisteau Frérot, Rosie Brown, Laura Laubach-Richardson, Parisa Kay, Megan Notman (no “h”), Jerri Stepp, Emmy Kennedy, Annie Cheung, Natasha Chick, Jessica Leblanc-Manias, Teri Herbert.

A book represents a slice of time in my life. While it is being written and going through the publication process, normal life goes on, both the bad and the good. I can remember what happened during a certain period by what book was written during it, such as driving cross country, a most excellent Christmas feast, the arrival of a kitten, and loss. As I finished this book and continued with reviewing copyedits and proofs, I was hit with two devastating losses: my mom and my Siberian cat, Watson a.k.a. Mr. Handsome. I memorialize mom in the front of this book, but here I remember my floofy morning tromper, mighty lizard hunter, and lap comforter and purr master. My sweet boy was an excellent companion for 12 years and I miss him.

AUTHOR’S STATEMENT

RE: Artificial Intelligence (AI)

The following statement is mine, and mine alone.

This work of fiction was entirely created with the wits, skill, creativity, moxie, talent, blood, sweat, and tears, and meticulously wordsmithed over uncountable hours/years, by a real life carbon-based human being. Likewise, the art at the front of this work of fiction was drawn by said human being. Artificial Intelligence (AI) has played no part in the creation of this work of fiction or art. Said human being rejects the notion that purveyors of AI platforms can use copyrighted materials for AI learning/training without permission from the copyright holders. AI is cool. Purveyors of AI platforms misappropriating the creations of those who put their very human souls into an original, authentic work without permission, recompense, or attribution are NOT cool. I have not given, nor do I give, any AI platform consent to use my work for AI learning/training without my explicit permission.

Yours truly,

Kristen Britain

Author and Real Life Carbon-based Human Being

Kristen Britain is the bestselling author of the Green Rider Series. She lives in a woodland cottage on an island in Maine.

www.kristenbritain.com