First Rider's Call (64 page)

“You may be dismissed,” he said.

Karigan rose to leave, but he called after her. “You broke three of Drent’s fingers.”

With all the excitement, she had forgotten all about Drent and her outburst this morning.

“I’m sorry,” she said, head bowed. “I’ll report to General Harborough immediately.”

“Don’t bother. Drent says you are ready to move to the next level of training, now that you’ve tired yourself of being beaten on. His words, not mine.” The humor was creeping into his eyes again. “Besides, your acts here today override any demonstrations of insubordination. No discipline is necessary—this time. By my order.”

 

Karigan left the throne room less than satisfied with the king’s response to her request to ride to the wall. Sending someone else was not good enough for her. She felt certain
she
must go. It had to be her.

She walked through the castle corridors wondering if there was some way she could change his mind. The king wanted her by his side while Captain Mapstone was unavailable. What if the captain became available? The king would have little reason to hold her back. Perhaps if Karigan could convince her of the urgency of her task, the captain would pull herself together and be able to stand by the king again.

Encouraged by her plan, she left the castle for officers quarters.

“Please, Captain,” Karigan called through the door, “we need you back.”
No lie there.
“If you come back, the king will let me go to the wall and seek out Alton.”

The door groaned open, and Karigan jumped back, thinking her plan must have worked, but when she looked upon Captain Mapstone, she realized her mistake.

The captain stood in the doorway, gaunt and hard. She practically emanated ice. Even her hair had lost its vibrant sheen and seemed frosted over.

She pointed a shaky finger at Karigan. “Leave my doorstep.” Her voice was weak, but harsh.
“Leave.”

And she slammed the door shut.

Abashed, Karigan headed back for the castle. Not only had she lost Alton, but now the captain as well.

Guilt washed over Laren, adding to her torment. She slid down the door to the floor, her head in her hands, her ability commenting on each and every thought and emotion as she experienced it.

She no longer lived, but merely existed, with the mental battering in her mind. It would be better to die.

Not even when she had been so ill after the knife wound that had left the brown scar down her neck and all the way to her belly, not even when she had lost the man who had meant the most to her in her life, had she so seriously considered ending her own.

Her eyes roved over her saber and longknife hanging from her swordbelt on a hook on the far wall. The leather scabbards were shiny black, but she knew precisely the bright, sharp steel they concealed.

She loosed a trembling sigh, knowing she hadn’t the reserves to actually stand and cross the room to draw her knife. Instead, she reached into her pocket and withdrew the stone butterfly she kept close by at all times. Each feature, each pattern and texture, was perfectly preserved. Life literally captured in stone. It only reminded her of how trapped she was as well.

“I have never been so low,” she sobbed.

She was a terrible captain—she had let down so many of her Riders—Ereal and Bard, Ephram and Alton . . .

Let someone else make all the difficult choices and carry the weight of it. She was hopelessly incapable of it herself.

She just wanted to bang her head against the wall, bang it bloody.

Or, there was the honed edge of her longknife.

“What?” She looked up, blinking rapidly.

Her quarters were dim. She didn’t care to see the squalor she lived in. It seemed somehow fitting, for her mind moved in dark places. She had no covering, however, across the narrow arrow slit window, and dusty sunlight glared in her eyes when she looked in that direction.

I want to help you,
he said.

She shielded her eyes and barely made out a figure.

“Who—who are you? How did you enter?”

He stepped closer, but his outline was fluid.
The one who was first of us all sent me here from my long rest.

His words did not send an assault upon her mind. In fact, there was an easing, a sense of peace that overcame her. The voice of her ability was slowly closed off. Tears of joy ran down her cheeks.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

He came closer, but remained translucent. He was garbed in green, and there was the glitter of a golden winged horse brooch upon his chest. She barely made out ritual tattoos tracked across his cheeks. A gleaming mane of black hair fell down his back.

He was the half-breed Rider captain who helped deliver King Smidhe Hillander to his throne. “Gwyer Warhein,” she murmured.

He nodded.
We share a brooch, you and I. It augments a singular gift, a rare one. It is something to rejoice in, not despair.

“The pain—” The words wrenched from her gut.

All of Karigan’s dealings with ghosts had not prepared Laren for this moment, but having the shade of one of Sacoridia’s hero Riders in her quarters did not frighten her or make her question her sanity. No, it awakened her sense of wonder, and uplifted her spirits from the blackness of despair in which she had wallowed for so long. She stood, her legs trembling.

I have left my rest to help you,
he said. He reached out with a translucent hand to her.
Will you let me show you how you may control your gift?

“Yes, oh yes.”

She felt a fluttering against her palm. Miraculously, a butterfly lifted from it, and into the air, free of stone.

BLACKVEIL

With little else to occupy the sentience while it waited, it drifted in dreams, daydreams and night dreams, dreams of remembrance, and in this way it came to know its name.

The son of Emperor Arcos, the heir to the empire.

The revelation elicited little excitement as though it had been remembered all along, deep within its consciousness.

Knowing the name, however, unlocked avenues to its history, its childhood, and to memories of growing into manhood with Hadriax at its . . .
his
side. Together they had gone hawking and battered down uprisings among the empire’s holdings. There were parties and balls, dinners and festivals. Hadriax had snuck wine and women into their rooms when the devil got into him. Alessandros had enjoyed these diversions, but he cared less about them than he did about Hadriax.

Always Hadriax had been there beside him, the dashing soldier-courtier, his best friend, and his best champion.

Then there had been the time of exploration across the sea into the New Lands. Here had been the opportunity for Alessandros to prove himself to the emperor, and to clinch his favor with the people. Here had been his moment to achieve true manhood and, in the eyes of God, prove his suitability to represent Him on Earth.

Glory was to be had, and riches, and the greatest expansion of the empire’s boundaries since the time of Arcos I. He would return home triumphant, bearing gifts to the emperor of gold, spices, slaves, and knowledge. Most importantly, he would bring back a new source of etherea that would heal lands throughout the empire left barren and drained by its overuse. It would make the emperor more powerful than ever.

No emperor would be as renowned as Alessandros del Mornhavon, Arcos VI. With Hadriax at his side, he could not fail.

But Alessandros had never returned home, had he? He had become something other than a man. Something greater?

Something trapped.

And where was Hadriax now?

They had come to these lands and things turned out much different than he ever imagined they would. The barbarians proved more and more resistant as time passed, initiating a war that never seemed to end.

Alessandros had been confident it was just a matter of time before they wore the barbarians down. The empire kept sending ships filled with supplies and soldiers. Then, inexplicably, the ships stopped coming.

He had sent messenger after messenger back home seeking assistance from his father, the emperor, but no word ever came back, the ships never returned. He thought the first few had been lost at sea, but as he depleted his fleet, another answer came to him: his father had abandoned him.

His father must have disapproved of the long war, and perceived his son as a failure.