People emerged and vanished, leaving but brief impressions. Their speech lagged behind in slurred echoes, like ghost voices.
The traveling, or whatever it was, halted jarringly. Karigan sprawled across the floor from sheer momentum. She clambered to her feet shaking her head. As far as she could tell, this was the same corridor she had been in with the castellan and the priest. She hadn’t moved—physically.
Torches crackled in sconces, smoke spiraling upward to the soot-stained ceiling. Brightly woven tapestries and shields hung on the walls, their proud devices glinting in the dancing light. Here Karigan saw the Sea Rose and the Black Bear, the Peregrine and the Evergreen. Devices not used in hundreds of years by companies that no longer existed.
How far have I come? she wondered. How far in time . . .
Soldiers, mostly in silver and black, milled about the corridor, but there were other uniforms with other devices making a colorful mix. Their conversations clam ored in her ears. The light, the color, and the noise all buffeted her.
As before, no one was aware of her, but voices hushed and eyes glanced in her direction. The soldiers parted before her.
Two people brushed by. One was a tall woman in half armor with a green cloak thrown over her shoulder. She wore a cross sash of blue and green plaid, and a saber girded to her hip. A horn swung at her side. As she passed, Karigan caught the gleam of a winged horse brooch. Her own brooch hummed, filled her head. A thrill sang through her nerves.
Karigan had seen the plaid before, and the saber. The plaid had been draped across the remains of the First Rider, Lil Ambrioth, down in the tombs beneath the castle. The sword Karigan had held in her own hands.
The man who strode beside the First Rider had a striking mane of gray hair and a bristling beard. He, too, was armored and girded with a greatsword. He wore the jeweled gold crown Karigan had just seen resting on the body of Agates Sealender. The soldiers murmured and dropped to their knees as the man swept past them.
He could be none other than King Jonaeus, the first high king of Sacoridia. He had been crowned a thousand years ago near the end of the Long War.
Karigan had traveled far. Very far.
Journal of Hadriax el Fex
Alessandros’ use of his art to destroy clan villages has drawn the Elt out of their stronghold. In the night, emissaries came to us, resplendent in a milky armor that seemed to absorb the moonlight. They demanded we leave these shores immediately, and not return.
I saw in Alessandros’ eyes the reawakening of his longing as he gazed at them. He once told me he believed they embodied etherea, not just possessed the art to draw upon it. He ordered them detained, except for one he sent back as a messenger to their queen, to tell her that she must kneel to the Empire, or suffer war. General Spurloche and I were alarmed by this bold statement, but agreed later that it must be a bluff. Who knows what these Elt are capable of? The emissaries we hold as hostages.
Alessandros circles his prisoners like a lion examining prey, questioning them. These people refuse to answer his questions, so he had no choice but to force some answers, but the resistance of one ended his own life. Alessandros is upset, and so were the other two emissaries. One told Alessandros that his act was heinous to the Elt, because they hold life as so precious. Alessandros said it was the same for Arcosians.
“Do you Arcosians live eternal lives as we do?” one of the Elt asked, then realized he shouldn’t have. His companion was very angry with him, and Alessandros more eager than ever to continue with his questioning.
SPURLOCK
Weldon Spurlock stalked along the row of writing desks, his clerks working furiously to copy correspondence and documents. There was no other sound in the room except for the scritch-scratch of pens and his own footsteps.
He paused at Fenning’s desk. The young clerk was not doing anything wrong. On the contrary, he was making rapid progress on the letters he was copying, his hand neat and clean, but it pleased Spurlock to no end to see his mere presence intimidate the young man into working even more feverishly. Blotches of red formed on his cheeks. He became so nervous he spilled ink on his paper.
Spurlock rapped his wooden stick on Fenning’s desk. The clerk jumped, his eyes wide.
“Sloppy work, Fenning,” Spurlock said. “Start over.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the young man fumbled for a fresh sheet of paper, Spurlock continued along the row of desks with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He enjoyed keeping his clerks and secretaries on their toes, of reminding them who oversaw them. If he made them nervous, all the better. Fear was an excellent motivator.
Oh, he knew they talked about him behind his back, but in his presence he kept them on edge, and punished them with extra work if he caught wind of any talk. Often they had no idea of what they were being punished for, and that kept him unpredictable, and them even more on edge. They never knew what to expect next.
I am chief administrator, and this is my empire. It was a bitter thought, for didn’t the nobles look down upon him as some petty bureaucrat? Wasn’t he despised by his common subordinates? His immediate superior, Castellan Sperren, was a doddering old fool who left all the work to him, but berated him soundly if something was late or the slightest bit imperfect. Certainly the king took him for granted.
It was a paltry office for one destined for much greater things. One day he’d give these clerks something to truly fear. In fact, all of Sacoridia would be shaking at his feet, especially its king. He’d—
Irell was staring dreamily out the window, as if willing the noon hour bell to ring. Spurlock grinned maliciously and tapped his stick on the floor. Irell came to at the sound, and gulped when he noticed Spurlock’s gaze upon him.
“Hungry, are you, Irell?” Spurlock asked very softly.
Flustered, the clerk shuffled his papers and blushed. “No, sir.” As if to betray him, his generously sized gut rumbled. His blush deepened in humiliation. The other clerks snatched glances at Irell, and someone snickered.
“Dreaming of those pasties fresh out of the oven down in the dining hall, hmm?”
Irell stared at the surface of his desk.
On cue, the noon bell began tolling. His clerks looked eagerly to him for dismissal. Even after the twelfth note faded, he did not release them. He held them there, stretching their anticipation to the brink. But Spurlock couldn’t waste his time here playing games—he had other things to attend to. Important things.
“You are dismissed for the midday meal,” he said, “except for you, Irell. You shall remain here and continue your work.”
Chairs scraped back and the clerks raced out of the room to be relieved of his presence. All except Irell who continued to gaze at his desk, his expression morose.
“If I do not see your work satisfactorily completed upon my return,” Spurlock said, “I shall keep you here until after five hour. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Spurlock knew he’d remain here, working diligently. Irell could not risk permanent dismissal, for he had a burgeoning family to feed. How many brats did he have now? Ten? And with an eleventh on its way.
Spurlock left the chamber, seeking the spiral stairs that would take him to the lowest level of the administrative wing. His destination, however, was not the records room for a visit with that ridiculous recordskeeper, Dakrias Brown, the superstitious lout. No, he had a different sort of meeting to attend.
When he reached the lower level, he took a lamp from the wall, and ensuring no one was nearby to see him, he darted down an abandoned corridor.
These corridors were useful. His group ought to have used them to begin with, rather than taking chances in more well traversed areas, like the central courtyard gardens. He still couldn’t believe how close they’d come to having that Galadheon girl stumble upon one of their meetings. What a disaster that could have been.
She was a problem. While he was pretty sure where he stood on the Galadheon issue, it was not a simple matter. No doubt the group
would have to address it eventually. The greatest irony to Spurlock’s mind was that she had become a Green Rider.
THE FUTURE FROM THE PAST
Karigan followed Lil Ambrioth and King Jonaeus into a sunlit chamber. It was a startling contrast to the darkness she’d been immersed in, and the stormy day she had left somewhere far behind, ages into the future.
A guard closed the door behind them and Karigan took in a low-ceilinged and plain chamber. There was nothing to ornament it except more battle banners and shields. The thick leaded windows were thrown wide open, and sweet summer air lilted in, dissipating the gloom of her time spent in the corridors. Outside came the sounds of marching feet and the shouts of a drill sergeant.
A long, rough-hewn table mounded with scrolls and parchments dominated the center of the chamber. Karigan wondered what treasures of information these might hold, but a single glance assured her she would never know, for they were written in the old tongue.
Lil Ambrioth was pacing, and the king watched her with his arms folded across his chest. They were in a heated discussion, but about what, Karigan had a difficult time deciphering, for their dialect was archaic. Gradually, she began to pick up on words, and finally whole sentences.
“The intelligence is reliable,” Lil insisted. “He’s breaking with Mornhavon.”
“Rumors,” the king said. “You cannot believe rumors.”
Lil made a frustrated sound in her throat. She was a powerful presence as she swept back and forth across the room. Suddenly she halted and gazed out the window. “More than rumors. He wants to meet with me.”
“No!” The king’s response was ferocious, and Karigan saw fear in his eyes. “I won’t have it.”
Lil turned to him, and when she spoke, her voice was lower, more intense. “Eight Riders died to bring me this information. How many more lives will it take before we have another chance like this—a chance we may never get again? How many more children born in war will grow up never to know peace? How many children will never know their parents because they’ve been slain on the field of battle? The orphan camps are overwhelmed, but I suppose when the children grow, they’ll be arrow fodder, able to carry a sword against Mornhavon. Like me.”
“I want to see this war ended just as much as you,” the king said gruffly.
“You want to see this war ended, hey? Well this may be how we do it. Hadriax el Fex has broken with Mornhavon, wants to see the atrocities ended. Think of the intelligence he’d give us that we could turn against Mornhavon. It will turn the tide of war. El Fex has been Mornhavon’s most trusted confidant, his closest companion.”
“Exactly my point,” the king said. “I do not trust him. It’s a trap—I know it is. Mornhavon hates you.”
Lil bared her teeth into a feral smile. “With good reason. I hope bringing his friend to our side will only make him hate me more.”
“I don’t like it. I don’t trust it.”
Lil threw her arms into the air. “You stubborn fool. We could end this war.”
“Or lose one of its greatest heroes for nothing.” The king’s expression was fierce, but softened. “I don’t want to lose you, Liliedhe Ambriodhe.”
“You will sooner or later, if this war goes on.”
“Hush.” The king drew her into his arms, pressing her cheek against his. “We will prevail.”
Lil leaned into him, wrapping her arms about him. “You are still a stubborn fool.”
“Am I now? Perhaps to love you.”
Karigan’s cheeks heated as the embrace grew steadily more intimate, and she bumped into the table, knocking over a pile of scrolls. Before she realized what she was doing, she caught one before it rolled off the table. The king and Lil broke their embrace and looked her way, though they could not see her.
“Who is there?” Lil demanded.
King Jonaeus’ sword rang out of its sheath. “Reveal yourself, mage! Only a coward stays cloaked in invisibility.”
The First Rider touched her brooch. Karigan’s own brooch seemingly stabbed her and she cried out in pain. She fell back as though jerked from behind, and the traveling began all over again.
Lil Ambrioth and King Jonaeus bled into an oblivion of streaming lights. Voices screamed by at an incomprehensible velocity, only to fade into some void of distance. Through light and dark she traveled, yet she never moved.
The traveling lasted longer this time, and she began to wonder, with rising panic, if it would ever stop, and if it did, where—or when—she’d end up.
She closed her eyes as air currents blew across her face, fresh then musty, cold then warm, damp then dry and smoky.
When the sense of motion ceased, she opened her eyes to black. To emptiness. To silence. Silence except for the throbbing of her own heart.
Had she returned to where and when she had begun? How could she know? As she sat there wondering what to do, a heavy cold settled over her, like the mantle of winter. It seeped into her flesh and she shivered uncontrollably, teeth chattering.
A dim light began to define the doorway of the chamber she was in, first softly, faintly, then growing steadily stronger. She forced her chattering to stop, and she heard light footfalls.
“Hello?” she called, but there was no reply.
The light grew bright enough that it leaked into the chamber itself. At its source was a lamp, and a face that peered in. Karigan gazed at herself. Startled, she could say nothing.
Her other self raised the lamp and squinted as if to see something.
A figure paused in the doorway just behind her. Dressed in black, he faded mostly into the corridor beyond, even though he carried a lamp of his own. Fastion!
“Reliving memories?” he asked.
Her other self did not answer. She seemed too far away in her thoughts, perhaps indeed, reliving memories.
Fastion left the doorway. “This way, Rider.”
Her other self did not follow immediately, but licked her lips and glanced back into the room. “Hang on,” she said into the darkness, a quaver in her voice.
Whom was she addressing? Herself? Was her other self aware of her presence?
“You’ve come too far forward—you must go back,” she said, then turned from the doorway.
“What?” But her other self—her future self?—could not hear her, and hastened away, her lamplight fading with her retreating footsteps.
“Wait!” Karigan cried. She tried to stand so she might follow, but she hadn’t the strength and the effort left her trembling. She was trapped again in complete dark and silence, the cold penetrating to her very bones.
I’ve come too far forward. Now I must go back . . . She mulled over the words of her other self, and wondered how she was supposed to “go back.” How—?
She brushed her brooch with her fingers and the traveling took her hurtling away through time once again.
WHISPERERS
“For the glory of Arcosia,”Weldon Spur lock said.
“For the glory of Arcosia,” the others intoned.
One by one they lifted their hands, palms facing the center of the circle. Each palm was tattooed with a dead black tree.
They were the true bloods, his followers, direct descendants of those who, a thousand years ago, had come from the Arcosian Empire on the continent of Vangead to colonize and incorporate new lands into the empire, and to seize whatever resources the lands might yield. Particularly resources of a magical nature.
The true bloods now wore the smocks of bakers and blacksmiths, carpenters and wheelwrights. They might be tanners, coopers, laundresses, and yes, a chief administrator, but their ancestors had once been among the elite of Lord Mornhavon’s forces. Despite the fact their ancestors had been stranded here in these new lands following the Long War, their pride of empire never faded, even with successive generations. The descendants called themselves Second Empire.
Over time, lineages were documented—records now entrusted to Spurlock, as they had been to his father, and his father before hi
m. The names of all descendants were known, and Second Empire inculcated its children from birth to the rightness of the empire, its customs, and the fragments of its language that had survived a thousand years. The true bloods married among themselves, not sullying their lines with those who had persecuted their ancestors after the Long War.
Second Empire retained a network of sects across the provinces, using trade guilds and business relationships to allow its members to congregate without arousing suspicion. They assimilated into Sacoridian culture only to protect themselves and their purpose; to remain invisible. Their heritage and artifacts from the imperial past—whatever fragments could be preserved—remained hidden, always hidden.
Of course, there had been many who broke with Second Empire over the generations and the group’s numbers were not as great as they had been. Some who had abandoned the cause were non-believers, or just not interested in their heritage or events of hundreds of years ago, and faded into the fabric of Sacoridia and Rhovanny, marrying outside the true blood. Others, more vocal in their condemnation of Second Empire, were dealt with severely, and permanently.
Candlelight and Spurlock’s lamp flickered across the faces of the faithful, leaving the shabby background of the chamber in shadow. This was an ancient room they had chosen for their meeting. Spurlock wondered what the first high king, Jonaeus, would think of the enemy meeting in his halls. No doubt he was writhing in his grave. For that matter, what would the current king, Zachary, think? Spurlock grinned at the thought of them meeting right under the king’s nose.
“The signs are upon us,” said Madrene the baker. “I’ve heard talk of some strange things afoot in the countryside.”
“Like a stone deer in Wayman,” Robbs the blacksmith said. “The city is full of such talk.”
“Yes, perhaps they are signs,” Spurlock said slowly. “I have believed all along that Blackveil is awakening.”
Carter, the wheelwright, scratched his chin, “What word do you receive from the wall?”
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