Pensworth grinned most proudly, saluted her, and trotted away toward the west ridge, and disappeared beyond the roiling flames of the pyre.
Turning back to the apparition, she said, “I don’t have time for you.”
Karigan was weary. She was weary from the traveling. Weary from her climb up Watch Hill. Weary at being forced to exist in a place and time neither here nor there. And she was weary of trying to communicate with Lil Ambrioth, and when finally they connected, the First Rider brushed her aside.
This had been a terrible night. Crossing the battlefield with its carnage left her gasping. Witnessing the pyre and inhaling its acrid stench of burning human flesh sickened her. She just wanted to sit down and weep.
How could Lil and her Riders stand it? Were they simply used to it? She thanked the heavens that she lived in the times she did, times of peace. Otherwise, this could be her life. Battle and the burning of dead comrades.
Now as she faced the First Rider on the summit of Watch Hill, she understood why the legends of her heroics endured. Here was a leader with the wit to meet a trap with a counter trap, and carry off Mornhavon the Black’s closest friend. Here was one who could lead her Riders in mourning. And here was the leader who was about to divert the minions of Varadgrim so her Riders could escape in safety.
Lil glanced across the summit at the whooping and hollering silhouettes—another wonder among many—and nodded in satisfaction. She touched her brooch to fade out.
The force of it acted on Karigan. It absorbed her into the body of Lil Ambrioth with such suddenness that she could do nothing to prevent it. Lil’s rage at the intrusion crackled at her like bursts of lightning.
Within Lil, Karigan could feel the reins of the horse in her hands as though she held them herself. The beat of Lil’s heart and the pulse of her blood became Karigan’s too.
“Get out!”
Karigan heard it both through Lil’s ears and in her mind.
I would if I could, Karigan informed her. I think it’s because our brooches are linked.
“Linked?”
We wear the same brooch. It seemed idiotic to be telling her the same information she had once told Karigan.
“I’ve told you no such thing,” Lil countered. “I have never seen you before. Now get out! I’ve got to go.”
I can’t! Do what you need to. I will not interfere.
“You’ve done that enough, I’ll wager,” Lil grumbled. “I don’t trust you.”
I am a Rider. I will not interfere.
Lil growled and mounted her horse, apparently accepting the inevitable, and kicked her horse between obscenity-shouting silhouettes. As Lil caught her thoughts, Karigan was privy to all the thoughts streaming through Lil’s mind: Were her Riders all right? What if Varadgrim had the west ridge guarded? Where was Varadgrim? Had he become powerful enough to detect her even when she used her gift?
Lil’s senses heightened as she guided her horse down the south ridge at a walk. No sense of flying down it when she was virtually invisible, and at a walk, her horse—also under the spell of fading—would be less likely to make a noise that would endanger her. She gazed into shadows and sniffed the air, seeking some tell-tale sign of Varadgrim and his troops.
Karigan was amazed at how effortlessly Lil wielded her ability. There was no headache, no veiling of gray over her sight. There was a wave of nausea, but it had nothing to do with the use of magic. Surprised, Karigan felt yet another life within Lil. She was pregnant.
Lil glanced over her shoulder at the summit as her horse ambled down the south ridge. The pyre continued to rage, and the silhouettes bounded about, hurling their mockery at the empire. They were thoroughly convincing. Lil grinned, and pulled her horn to her lips. Her lungs expanded, and she blew the Rider charge.
When she was done, Karigan became aware of movement down the slope. Orders were shouted and arrows shooshed into the air, but they flew wide, clattering into rocks far away from Lil. The moon glinted on a blade or two, and Lil attempted to discern the path of least resistance. It was too difficult to tell, really, and with a shrug, she kicked her horse into a headlong gallop, blowing the charge again as she went. Dropping her horn, she unsheathed the saber she wore at her hip.
The ride was terrifying. The big horse leaped down the slope, his hooves skidding down the solid granite ledge, almost convincing Karigan his legs would fly right out from beneath him. He jumped crevices in the rocky slope and almost stumbled to his knees a number of times on loose scree. Lil jolted sickeningly in the saddle, unfazed, while the headlong dash frayed Karigan’s nerves.
Soon they came upon the enemy. Bewildered by the sounds of the charge and the silhouettes on the summit, they weren’t sure of what to shoot. They heard Lil’s horse upon them, but saw nothing. They died beneath her blade.
Leaning close to the horse’s neck, they leaped a downed log and the two soldiers who’d been crouched behind it. A large hoof smashed a head, and they kept running.
Lil left more and more bodies behind her, clearing a swath through the troops, driving the enemy into confusion. They were unsure of where the attack was coming from, or where it would go next.
Sweat drenched her face, but her arm did not tire. She killed with a routineness that stunned Karigan. Lil was not bothered by the killing, but not triumphant either.
The enemy randomly fired arrows, trying to take out the unseen menace by chance. One arrow skittered across the horse’s rump. He bucked and whinnied, but Lil dug her spurs into his sides so he’d keep galloping.
She spotted Varadgrim ahead, barking orders at his troops from behind. Lil laughed with glee. She veered the horse toward him, trampling and hacking down soldiers as she went. She readied her sword for his head.
Varadgrim knew she was coming, but was unable to discern her precisely. The blood drained from his features, and his cruel eyes widened in fear. He swept his sword before him, the jewels on his fingers flashing in the moonlight. He screamed at his soldiers.
“Here! She is here!”
Lil gritted her teeth, leaned over the horse’s neck, and lowered her blade to the level of his throat.
Arrows rained all around them, impaling the saddle and skimming the horse’s neck. Lil rode relentlessly toward her target, undaunted.
Pain! It exploded in her back. Her scream was Karigan’s, too. The iron arrowhead tore through flesh, scraped rib, the wooden shaft sliding in after it.
Just short of Varadgrim, Lil’s sword slipped from her fingers and clattered to the rocky ground.
The horse galloped on past him, Lil’s back arched and mouth open in a soundless cry, blackness closing in on her. The arrow twisted inside with each lunge of the horse’s stride, and she listed precariously in the saddle.
No-no-no! Karigan cried. Lil’s insides ripped like they were her own. They then began to divide, the pain fading, Karigan becoming herself, and Lil a separate entity tottering in her saddle. She lost the fading, becoming visible to the enemy. Varadgrim took up pursuit.
No! Karigan couldn’t let this happen. No one knew how or when the First Rider died, but Karigan couldn’t let it happen now. She couldn’t let Lil fall into the hands of Varadgrim, knowing what a prize she would be to the forces of the dark.
Even as Karigan felt herself sinking through the horse’s haunches, she touched her brooch and reasserted her energy into it. At first nothing happened, but then Lil’s brooch resonated, and she was drawn back in. The pain was unbearable, and Lil was just on this side of consciousness. Karigan withdrew enough so the pain did not overwhelm her or she didn’t fall unconscious herself, but she remained merged with Lil enough so she could lend strength and support to keep her in the saddle.
Stay with me, Karigan pleaded her. We’ve got to find your people.
“Stay . . .” Lil murmured.
Karigan buoyed her arms so she might guide her horse. She gripped him with her legs to keep him galloping, to keep Lil in the saddle.
Tell me where to go, Ka
rigan said.
Lil breathed raggedly, so close to incoherence.
Karigan shook her from inside and the pain of the arrow brought her a little more awareness.
Where do we go? Karigan shouted at her. Where is King Jonaeus?
At the king’s name, Lil revived a little.
“West,” she gasped. “West to Black Duck Lake.”
Karigan knew the place, for the name had not changed over the ages.
She paced the horse so he wouldn’t kill himself before they reached safety. From her observation of the other Riders, Lil had one of the “finer” steeds among them. Several had looked ready for the knacker’s wagon.
Pursuit fell off behind them at the base of Watch Hill. Apparently she had been able to maintain invisibility. Now she just had to keep Lil in the saddle and alive long enough to find help, not an easy task considering the blood loss and rigors of the ride.
Karigan never did reach Black Duck Lake. They came upon a patrol of king’s soldiers riding reconnaissance, which had also intercepted the fleeing Riders.
As they helped Lil from her horse, the Rider-mender Merigo came forward with a green glow clouding her hands.
It was the last Karigan knew, for the traveling swept her away through time once again.
INNER FIRE
Mara stumbled across the castle grounds in the thick night, rubbing her eyes, her head swimming. Why had Captain Mapstone left her in this position? Mara convinced herself she was well out of her league now that she saw what the captain was up against on a daily basis. Her day had started calmly enough, with a cup of tea at her elbow as she perused Rider reports. From there, all the various hells had broken loose.
Ephram broke his ankle on a loose floorboard in the stable. It wasn’t too difficult to get him settled into his room with a mender looking in on him, but then Karigan had come to tell her the king had posted several long distance messages, and they were a messenger short. So now Karigan was gone, and Mara realized just how much she’d been relying on her to handle the nitty-gritty of the daily operation.
While Mara was on her way to another pointless meeting, the two back-up horses and her own Firefly, full of high spirits, decided to knock down the fence of their enclosure and run across the castle grounds, wreaking havoc with the castle guards’ drill practice.
Mara ran after them—she was the only Rider around—and with some disgruntled assistance from the guard, captured the happy escapees and returned them to their stalls. Somehow, Robin, one of the horses, had gotten into the courtyard gardens and was found munching on the leaves of an ornamental shrub. Courtiers regarded the manure left on the pathway with disdain. Mara rolled her eyes, trying to imagine Robin trotting through the castle breezeway to reach the gardens.
She lost more precious time trying to locate someone to fix the fence. Hep the stablehand had gone into the city to tend to his wife, Flora, who had gone into labor with their first baby. In the end, she rigged a temporary fix herself.
As she put the final finishes on the fence, a breathless boy of the Green Foot ran up to her with a message from Captain Carlton admonishing her to join him and the captains of the other branches for their weekly meeting.
“He’s a bit annoyed, ma’am,” the boy warned her, “that you’re late.”
Sweaty and dirty, but with no time to spare for cleaning up, she ran full tilt to the castle and through the corridors to the meeting chamber. She charged into the room, and all the captains: guard, navy, cavalry, army, and Weapons, along with their aides, looked up at her. All Mara wanted to do, in her dirty and disheveled uniform, was turn and run back the way she had come.
Captain Carlton abruptly ordered her to sit, criticized her dress and lack of punctuality, and from there things deteriorated. Mara groaned, remembering how each captain angled and petitioned for their part of the treasury, and how every point she brought up in favor of the Green Riders was summarily cast down with, “You’ve got supplies freely given.”
She tried to explain that Stevic G’ladheon’s gift of supplies only covered uniforms and gear—not Rider pay, food, horses, or feed. She did not get a chance to add that having supplies freely given by Stevic G’ladheon left more of the treasury for the other branches to argue over.
This was a preliminary skirmish. The captains were to put their needs in writing and submit them to their superiors, who would hash it out from there. From that point, the captains pointedly ignored Mara. They discussed the crush of soldiers in their barracks, drill schedules, repairs needed, and so forth. Whenever she attempted to speak up, she was summarily cut off.
“Greenies don’t drill,” she was told, “so don’t waste our time with your suggestions.” Or, “You’ve got your own half-empty barracks. How could you understand how our soldiers must live?”
With growing frustration and alarm, Mara realized the other officers had the idea that Green Riders were somehow privileged and a useless holdover from the old days. “We carry half your messages these days,” said Captain Hogan of the light cavalry. “What are you complaining about?”
All too clearly she saw how their disrespect for the Green Riders filtered down all the way to the lowest ranks. How could Captain Mapstone manage such open hostility on a daily basis? She was sure the captain had honed her skills in dealing with her colleagues, but it put her in a difficult spot. How could she explain to them there were so few Riders because the brooches were not calling out for enough to work in the messenger service? How could she explain the magic? The mere mention of it might put her on even worse footing with the officers.
Mara gnashed her teeth as she rehashed the events of the day through her mind. And her stomach grumbled. She had eaten a hearty breakfast, thank the gods, but had had no time for other meals, and it was far too late to pester the cooks in the dining hall. No wonder Captain Mapstone had begun showing signs of strain. A day like this one, day after day, was bound to wear anyone down. Mara was certain the meeting had been enough to straighten her springy hair. At least the captain had had an aide of some sort to depend on for many things. Mara had only herself. If she wasn’t so exhausted, she’d cry.
Barracks loomed ahead unlit and quiet. Everyone was gone on an errand, except for Ephram. No light winked in the injured man’s window, so he must have turned in for the night.
It struck Mara just how still and silent it was, like a brooding shadow. The crickets had left off their chirruping. No guards patrolled this way. Not even a breeze shifted on the dewy grasses. It seemed clouds had been drawn over the stars like a shroud.
I am tired. Mara tried to shake off her feeling of unease. Barracks is empty, but for one Rider. Of course it’s dark and quiet.
Her sense of unease only intensified as she mounted the steps and paused on the threshold. An unlit lamp sat on a table by the entrance. She touched the wick, and with a mere thought, light sprang to life.
The light twisted and stirred, as if doing battle with the night, flickering ungainly at the walls. Floorboards moaned beneath her feet all too loudly in the dense, dark silence. She squinted into the shadows, but discerned nothing amiss.
She paused by Ephram’s door. No light filtered from beneath. Carefully she opened the door to check on him. He writhed on his bed, muttering. Concerned, Mara entered and stood beside his bed. His eyes were wide open but unseeing. Was he dreaming with his eyes open?
“They seek . . .” he muttered.
“Ephram?” Mara said, alarmed. She nudged his shoulder. “Ephram, wake up!” But he did not. He stared at nothing and gabbled unintelligibly like a man with a fever.
With a prickling, Mara turned suddenly as though she were being spied upon from behind. The lamplight swirled across the walls. When it stilled, nothing seemed amiss, but a sense of extreme danger washed over her.
A door groaned open somewhere down the corridor. Mara licked her lips, tasting the salt of perspiration. Her ability burned within her like the core of a blacksmith’s forge. She must radiate the heat.
With a last apprehensive glance at Ephram, she stepped out into the corridor. It was a nightmare corridor of dancing, darting shadows and palpable dread.
The opened door led into Karigan’s room.
What were the chances that it was Karigan who was within?
None.
By now, the lamplight would have announced Mara’s presence to whoever was there. Should she turn and flee from the unknown terror? Get help? She could not. She was drawn forward.
Each shaky step drew her inexorably closer to the open door, which stood like the black entrance to a tomb.
Sweat slid down her temple, her internal fire burning ever hotter.
She stepped into the doorway. Her lamp failed to illuminate each corner of the little room. She had visited the room so often when Karigan was in residence that there should be nothing sinister about it. Her bed was neatly made with a blanket folded at its foot. An old pair of boots, bent at the ankles and scuffed from much wear, stood against the wall. Yet, now, the room became an unfamiliar landscape of stark, angular shadows and invisible terrors. The room was cold, terribly cold, and threatened to quench Mara’s fire.
As she swung the lamp around, a brilliance flared on Karigan’s table. Strangely attracted, Mara stepped over the threshold and into the room. The crystal fragments of Karigan’s moonstone dazzled, reflecting and refracting the lamplight. They sparkled more than the dim lamplight warranted.
A hiss.
Mara whirled around.
A shadow detached itself from the wall, clutching Karigan’s greatcoat in one bone white hand, and a bit of blue hair ribbon in the other. The chain of a manacle dangled from its wrist.
Mara’s feeble lamplight gleamed on a lead crown.
Her mouth went dry. The summer evening had become bleak winter, a steely cold. Down in the city, the bell rang out the late hour in heavy, sonorous tones as though echoing the dread of this moment.
“We seek,” the shadow said, its voice a frosty almost-whisper, “the Galadheon.”
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