Mirror Sight (61 page)

“We had taken these to be horsemen in the distance,” Master Goodgrave was saying, “but we thought it odd they were slightly out of proportion when the rest of the scene was so masterfully crafted. As we cleaned, we realized they weren’t horsemen at all.”

Laren gasped when she saw what he was talking about. No, those were not men at all, nor were those horses. They were p’ehdrose, part man, part moose. The size of the moose bodies compared to horses would account for the odd proportions the glass craftsmen had perceived.

Zachary laughed softly behind her. “There you are, Captain, your mystery solved. The fourth member of the League.”

She groaned. P’ehdrose? They were more myth than fact. They certainly had not been seen in modern times. If they had ever existed, they were quite extinct. Had they once existed? The legend was that the horn now in her keeping had once belonged to Lil Ambrioth, and it had been given to her by a p’ehdrose. So, why wasn’t there more proof of their existence from that long ago time?

Zachary placed his hand on her shoulder. “In solving one mystery, it appears you’ve opened another.”

“The only mystery is why I pinned my hopes on a fourth member of the League to help us when no one has ever claimed that part in history in the first place.”

“Perhaps they had their reasons,” Zachary replied.

“They must have died out by the end of the war.”

“Perhaps, or they went into hiding when the Scourge began. Keep in mind that the Eletians had become no more than legend until just a few short years ago.”

“You’re not saying there could still be p’ehdrose out there, are you?”

Zachary shrugged. “There have been stranger things.”

A pause in their conversation allowed Master Goodgrave to start rattling off the techniques he and his assistants had used to clean the glass. Laren did not listen, but wondered about Zachary’s words. It was true, the Eletians had receded into myth until they chose to reveal themselves and become part of the world again. The Scourge had been a terrible time after the Long War, a reaction of hate toward magic after all the terrible uses Mornhavon the Black had made of it. There’d been no distinction of good users from evil. To those who wanted to suppress magic, it was all corrupt. Even the Green Riders had been forced to hide their brooches—with spells, ironically—to preserve them.

Could it be the p’ehdrose had hidden themselves to avoid persecution? Any documentation of their existence could have been destroyed during the Scourge, along with any other objects or writings that had anything to do with the p’ehdrose.

Master Goodgrave cleared his throat and was about to resume his lecture, when they were buffeted by a cry come from some far distance, a cry of pain that made Laren’s brooch pulse against her chest. She staggered and grabbed a railing. A great gust swirled up from below blowing documents in a vortex. The one cry was followed by the hushed echo of ghostly voices, and Laren glimpsed ragged, transparent forms flying around them. The scaffolding swayed and groaned.

“Hold on,” Zachary said.

She was already holding the railing with a deathly grip that left her knuckles white, but he wrapped his arm around her as if it would be enough to protect her from the structure’s collapse.

“Your Majesty?” the Weapon, Travis, called from below.

“We’re all right,” Zachary replied.

He could speak for himself, Laren thought, but the phantom wind had ceased and the scaffolding was already settling.

Master Goodgrave scratched his head. “Well, the scream was new. The spirits have been quiet of late, so I certainly was not expecting such an outburst.” His complexion was decidedly pasty, and beads of sweat dribbled down his cheek.

“Felt like it came across all the layers of the world.” Laren shuddered as her ability whispered a faint,
True,
and her brooch punctuated it with a twinge. She did not particularly like it when her ability cast random judgments. She also did not like the implication of its confirming that the voice had come through the layers of the world.

“Voice sounded familiar.” Zachary spoke so faintly, Laren was not sure she actually heard him. He looked thoughtful as he gazed off into space.

She would question him, but later. The sway of the scaffolding had made her more than a little queasy, and she wanted off as soon as possible. “I think it time we climbed down. Your Majesty?” She valiantly gestured at the ladder indicating Zachary should descend first.

“After you, Captain. I insist.”

He did not have to insist, or even ask twice. She got the feeling he regarded the whole climbing of the scaffolding as a great game, like when he’d climbed trees as a boy. He appeared unfazed by the ghostly display and shifting scaffolding. As she made her way down, she overheard him instructing Master Goodgrave to inspect the structure to ensure its safety before it was used again.

When they were both on ground level, with the solid stone floor beneath their feet, Laren and the king headed for the door. Zachary glanced back over his shoulder, and she followed his gaze to see Master Goodgrave’s assistants already scrambling to check the stability of the scaffolding. The dome still shone with brilliant light down into the room.

“Do not tell my wife the queen about this,” he said. “She worries about me enough as it is.”

“She isn’t the only one,” Laren muttered.

He heard her and scowled, slowing his stride as they made their way down the corridor. An almost healed scar cut down from the edge of his scalp through his eyebrow. He’d received the wound in a skirmish with Second Empire on the northern border.

“You think a king should not rally his troops in battle?” he demanded. “Why should I send them into a battle I’m not willing to fight myself?”

“There is a difference between rallying the troops and almost getting oneself killed on the front line.”

“I tried leading from behind. I did not like it.”

She halted.

“Captain?” He paused, and behind them Travis took up a watchful posture at a respectful distance.

She had been through this with him on more than one occasion, as had his other advisors. He knew that he put others at risk when he rode to the front line, and was a distraction to those who must not only fight, but protect him. He’d heard and understood that if they lost him, so much else would be lost. He countered, however, that so much was gained by his being present for the troops, lifting their spirits, leading by example, just as had the kings of old.

While this was all true, Laren knew there was more to it. She knew he was testing himself, proving he was whole and not afraid to face death after the assassin’s arrow had almost taken his life. He needed to prove he commanded his own destiny, that no one else held that power over him.

Compelling as that was, Laren knew it was not the only reason. When it had become clear that Karigan was not returning from Blackveil, he’d decided to travel to the north to observe the troops, only to get himself caught up in the fighting. She’d heard the reports of his courage and fighting skill, and of how resounding a victory it had been.

Despite their defeat, Second Empire had to be salivating for another opportunity to face Sacoridia’s king on the battlefield, to take him down. All arrows would be aimed at him. All swords would be harrowing the field of battle to reach him.

“Laren,” he said, “you have that look.”

“Look? What look?”

“That pensive look you get when you have something unpleasant to tell me. You might as well get on with it.”

If this had not been so serious a subject, she might have been amused. “All right,” she said. “Karigan and the others did not go into Blackveil just so you could get your head lopped off in a minor skirmish.”

He did not reply, but his eyes blazed.

“Furthermore, she would not have wanted you in harm’s way.” Laren could’ve heard a feather alight on the floor, the corridor had grown so silent. “Zachary, she is gone, but she’d want you to live on. She loved Sacoridia, and she loved you, and not just as her king.”

He looked away from her then. She could not imagine the intolerable weight of the crown he wore, all that it represented.

“I do not . . .” he began then shook his head. “She is resilient. I cannot accept she is gone.”

“Then,” Laren said, “why try to get yourself killed off before she comes back?” Because, she told herself, as much as he could not accept that Karigan was gone, he knew deep inside that she was.

He’d rallied after the visit of Somial, the Eletian, but nothing had come of the messages she’d entrusted to Agemon in the tombs, and she didn’t think anything ever would.

She sighed, watching Zachary stride down the corridor, Travis trailing after him. The only thing that would keep her king safely behind the line of skirmish was winter’s onset. It would soon be upon them, and she hoped that by spring he would come to his senses.

“I
would kill for a long soak in a hot bath,” Karigan said the next morning over porridge. She had undone her braid for the first time in days and spent a good amount of time trying to work a comb through her hair, only to have to rebraid it again so it would fit neatly beneath Tam Ryder’s cap. She had caught Cade sneaking glances at her as she worked on it. He’d got that look on his face, the intense one.

“I’m not sure a scruffy servant boy like Tam Ryder is supposed to be the bathing type,” Cade replied.

“Hmph. Harley Dace could stand a good washing, too. And a shave.”

Cade fingered his beard growth. “Part of my disguise.”

She reached across the table and stroked his chin. “Prickly. It does kind of suit you.”

He opened his mouth as if to protest, then shut it. She chuckled. She was feeling much more herself. No blurred vision, no headache, no weakness, and she was fully awake. However, she still had to pretend sickness when they left the bunkhouse, she leaning against Cade, and he holding her closer than ever. He had stashed the satchel with her uniform in it in the secret compartment of the wagon soon after she woke up. She had fallen asleep right on top of it.

For the first time, Karigan felt well enough to sit up front with Cade on the bench while he drove the mules, Luke jogging ahead on Gallant, as usual. Raven signaled his disapproval of this change with whinnies. Luke rode back to check on the stallion, then urged Gallant up beside them.

“What’s wrong with him?” Karigan asked.

“At a guess, I’d say he’s jealous,” Luke replied.

“Jealous? Of what?”

“Cade, here.” Luke smiled and urged Gallant ahead.

Cade and Karigan exchanged glances, both hastily looking away.

There was no sign announcing they had entered the outer reaches of the Capital, except having to pass through yet another checkpoint. Something changed in the air, however, and Karigan realized there were no tall chimneys spewing smoke. It smelled cleaner. There were no signs of industry as there had been elsewhere. They passed through neighborhoods of tiny whitewashed houses. The grass looked greener, the trees taller and fuller, farm fields neat and filled with crops.

Ditches, irrigation ditches, she thought, angled off from the canal, reflecting clouds.

Cade, who observed her interest, said, “Workers who serve the important people of the Capital live in its outer districts. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.”

It made sense to Karigan, after all she had learned about this world, that the elite would wish to remain segregated from the laboring classes. It did look, however, like these servants lived better than those packed into the cities and the grim little villages they’d passed through.

They rode in companionable silence. Karigan watched boats chug by on the canal and studied the foot and wagon traffic they met on the road. This had been L’Petrie Province once, but she did not recognize it—maybe some landforms in the distance looked the same, but overall it was as though the land had been remade, and she might as well have been traveling in a different country altogether. She supposed that really, she was.

She tried not to think about what had happened to her home, the G’ladheon estate. It must no longer exist, certainly not in a form she would recognize.

“You seem a little sad,” Cade said.

“The Capital is basically the province I grew up in,” she replied.

“Ah. Not much like you remember it then.”

She shook her head. It was not, she reflected, as much a shock as having seen the ruin of Sacor City for the first time. Between that experience and the map of the Capital she’d taken from the professor’s atlas, she’d been expecting change. She was not shocked, but it was still painful.

Their travel that day was uneventful, and when they stopped for the night, the grounds of the roadside inn Luke chose were better-kept than the others they had stayed at, with trimmed hedgerows and colorful flowerbeds. When Karigan and Cade received their bunkhouse assignment from Luke, they made their way to the building where they’d be spending the night. Even the bunkhouses, where lowly servants stayed, had window boxes full of flowers, the siding looking like it had received a fresh whitewashing.

Once they stepped inside, however, they discovered the bunkhouse was not unoccupied. A man snored away on one of the beds, and two burly, tough-looking drovers sat at the table playing cards. Karigan and Cade stared. The card players stared back. A fourth man suddenly emerged from the privy, entirely unclothed and hairy enough to be mistaken for a bear. Karigan bit her lip to suppress a gasp of laughter.

Cade slowly backed her out of the bunkhouse. “There must be some mistake,” he told her. “Wait here, and I’ll be right back.”

Karigan sat on a bench outside the bunkhouse. From the outside, it had looked so promising and pleasant, a fine respite for the two of them. What would they do now? Would they have to find another inn? She couldn’t stay in the bunkhouse with those other men—she’d be found out. Even worse was imagining not being alone with Cade.

Soon, Luke, Cade, and a short man she took to be the innkeeper trooped out of the main building.

“. . . highly contagious,” Luke was saying. “I have paid you good money to reserve the
entire
bunkhouse.”

Karigan slumped in a sickly manner in an effort to corroborate Luke’s words.

“Yes, Mr. Mayforte,” the innkeeper said, “but it would be some trouble to remove those drovers. I know them. They are a tough lot.” He paused as if thinking the matter over. “There might be another possibility.”

“Yes?” Luke asked.

“A guest cottage, rather more exclusive and usually reserved for the Preferred.”

“How much?” Luke asked in a resigned voice.

The innkeeper named his price in imperial terms Karigan was unfamiliar with, not having been allowed to handle currency. But from Cade’s gasp, she guessed it was an exorbitant sum.

He turned to Luke. “Sir, we can try someplace else.”

“Just a moment, Harley. Innkeeper, you promised me that bunkhouse, and have now gone back on your word. It is on you to make good.”

The innkeeper scratched his chin, named another price, and after some haggling an agreement was reached, followed by the clinking of coins as they passed from Luke’s hand to the innkeeper’s. Cade was given the key to the cottage, and he lifted Karigan into his arms. With the audience present, she dared not protest. She could feel his silent laughter through his chest. Only when they reached the little cottage, without their audience, did he set her down. She poked him in the ribs, eliciting a chuckle.

Though the bunkhouse had looked nice, the cottage had a sweet demeanor, set in the midst of gardens smelling of sea roses and honeysuckle. Intricately carved gingerbread curled beneath the eaves. Inside it was light and airy. There were two beds, larger than the usual bunks, and thicker looking, with down quilts. There were even rugs on the floor and curtains pulled aside from the windows. Upon further investigation, she discovered an actual bathing room with running water. It was not as ostentatious as the one at the professor’s house, but it possessed all the plumbing and mechanics with which she had become familiar, and, most importantly, an enormous tub. What had initially appeared to be bad luck with their bunkhouse, had turned into something far better. She could barely contain herself and came bouncing out into the main room.

“You
are
feeling better,” Cade said.

“I shall have a hot bath tonight,” she informed him.

“Good. Now you won’t have to kill anyone.” She must have given him a quizzical look because he added, “Last night you said you would kill for a hot bath.”

“I will if anyone gets in my way.” She gave him a playful pat on his cheek.

The bath was as blissful as she could have wished. She washed away days of travel and illness, scrubbed her skin with a lavender-scented soap, and washed her hair. She settled into languor as she soaked, steam billowing up from the water, and thought about how perfect a setting this cottage was. A setting for her and Cade.

They had been dancing around each other for so long now, and it left her confused. He’d declared his celibacy as a Weapon, yet seemed to signal the opposite by expressing his desire to travel back in time with her, presumably to be with her, and asking if she had a suitor back home, so he could “know the lay of the land.” In other words, he wanted to find out what competition he might have to face for her attentions.

So which was it? she wondered. He could not have it both ways. Was he celibate or not? If the latter, she could not imagine wanting to share her most intimate self with anyone else but Cade.

Well, there
was
one other, but he was so far away and so inaccessible even when within physical reach. He could not be hers. Cade could.

Except for the fact he was a Weapon. She slapped the water in aggravation. Why was she always reaching for the impossible?

Would he consider breaking his declaration of chastity to . . . to be with her? No matter what she might wish, she could not, would not, ask it of him. She respected him too much, admired the honor of all Black Shields. He would have to make the decision on his own.

She shifted in the tub, sending wavelets rippling across the surface of the water and against her skin. If, by chance, he had a change of heart, she was ready, a conclusion she’d come to only recently. After years of internalizing the teachings of her four strong-willed and conservative aunts who ensured she knew, in no uncertain terms, that an unmarried woman bedding a man was unacceptable, her expedition to Blackveil had given her occasion to reassess her beliefs. On the eve of entering the forest, lonely and realizing she might never return from her perilous mission, she had desired nothing more than the comforting touch of another. As fate would have it, she’d begun her journey without it.

In addition to her aunts espousing their morals as they raised her, she’d grown up wanting to emulate her parents, thinking it honorable to wait for that one true heart mate, only to find out her father had consorted with prostitutes. Not necessarily while he was married, but it had still dashed her illusions about his perfect love for her mother.

Could Cade be her heart mate? She did not know, but thought she’d like to find out.

As for honor? She had challenged that notion, as well. Some of her friends among the Green Riders had placed no restrictions on their personal lives, and were they any less honorable for seeking human companionship during respites in their otherwise hazardous lives? No. They were the most courageous, honorable people she knew. They were the ones to emulate, though, being particular in her attachments, she could not give so freely of herself as some of them.

Karigan was an adult now. She did not have to answer to her father, her aunts, or anyone. She’d watch out for her own honor.

She soaked till she wrinkled and the water cooled. She pulled the plug and, as the water drained from the tub, she felt as though the last of the morphia whirled away with it. She was once more whole and herself and ready to take on anything life flung at her.

Wearing only one of her oversized shirts, she peered out of the bathing room. She did not see Cade anywhere, so she entered the main room, sat on her bed, and engaged in battle with the tangles in her hair.

Before she’d gotten far, the door opened, and Cade stepped across the threshold. He smiled easily. “What have you done with Tam Ryder?”

“Uh . . .” Karigan blushed, wanting to cover her legs. Accidentally she yanked on the comb. “Ow! Damnation.”

Cade latched the door shut and strode over to her. “Here, let me help.”

She let him take the comb from her hand, and he started working it through her hair.

“Whoever you are,” he said, “you smell much nicer than Tam.”

Heat flamed in Karigan’s cheeks. She tried to tug the shirt farther down her legs, which only made the collar gap in front. She pressed it back into place. Had she really smelled so bad before her bath?

Cade was tender in his ministrations, and as the tangles came apart, the stroking of the comb became soothing, made the rest of her relax. If she’d been a cat, she would have started purring. He stroked her hair with his hands, then draped it all over one of her shoulders and leaned down to kiss her bare neck. Surprised, she stiffened, and he stepped back, no longer touching her.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he said. “That was forward of me.”

Forward? After all their dancing around? She turned to face him. “Don’t apologize. It wasn’t . . . forward. It just startled me. I thought as a Weapon you wouldn’t be interested in—” she gestured ineffectually at the air.

“Er, interacting with women?”

“That’s one way to phrase it.”

“I learned a few things talking with Joff and the others at the Heroes Portal.” He looked away bashfully. “It appears I misinterpreted the codes of conduct of the Black Shields as passed down to me by the professor.”

“Oh, really?” she asked, her interest piqued.

“Yes, pertaining to, um . . .”

“Interactions with women?” she provided.