They appeared to be quiet now, and she was just as glad. She left Estral and Connly to mull over their map, and halted at Elgin’s table. He was gazing at a yellowed manuscript through a lens to enlarge the torturous-looking script. He was not an official Green Rider, not anymore, but a veteran Chief Rider from the time of Queen Isen’s reign. Before Karigan had left for Blackveil, the captain had asked him to come assist with all the new Riders who had answered the call. As the newer ones got trained up and winter brought in no new Riders, the captain found other tasks for him to handle, such as researching old records for mention of Green Riders in time of war that might help the current generation prepare for what was to come.
He glanced up at her. “Something I can do for you, Rider?”
“The captain said I was to help you with transcription.”
A smile broadened on his grizzled face. “Did she now? That is good to hear. The young ones she had me working with—too fidgety. Didn’t have the patience for the work. Nor had they the clean hand you do.”
He patted a chair next to his. “Have a seat. The documents and books I’ve gone through are here.” He indicated a huge pile on one side of the table. “I’ve marked them with a strip of paper where there is mention of the Green Riders. I need you to transcribe the text, page, date, that sort of thing.”
Karigan gazed at the mountain with trepidation. It looked like years of work.
“Don’t faint, lass,” Elgin said. “Not all of those are marked. References to the Green Riders are frustratingly scarce.”
She sat next to him and unrolled the nearest scroll. It was fragile, cracked, and smelled of mold. She raised an eyebrow in consternation. “This is in Old Sacoridian, or something.”
“Aye,” he said. “I don’t know what it says, but I’ve a key for certain words that might indicate Green Rider activity.” He showed her a list. “There’s a caretaker down in the tombs who is versed in the old tongue, and he made this for me. He’ll also translate whatever it is we find.” He tapped the beginning of the scroll. “This is the date from very early in Rider history. Amazing it survives. See here?” He pointed to a line of gibberish. “That is the name of the captain back then. Siris Kiltyre, best as I can guess. He’d be the third or fourth captain.”
“Third,” Karigan replied.
Elgin looked at her in surprise. “How d’ya know that, lass?”
“I—I don’t know,” she replied, blinking. Memories, or what she thought were memories, rose up unexpectedly now and then, like the dream-memory she had had in Estora’s sitting room of the poet, Lady Amalya Whitewren. But how had she come by this particular piece of information? This certainty of its correctness? Had she learned it in the future?
“However it is that you know, I believe you,” Elgin said in a solemn tone.
She decided not to worry about it and dipped a pen in ink to begin copying the strange combination of letters in their old stylings. The work turned out to be more engrossing than she expected, and she found herself trying to guess words and meanings, but didn’t allow herself to become so distracted that she miscopied the material.
When she came to Siris Kiltyre’s name, she passed her finger over it. There was a subtle thrum of her brooch, and in her mind came a flash of ancient Rider garb and a bow. As quickly as it came, it was gone. She repeated the motion of touching his name, but the sensation did not recur.
She sat back in her chair after a time, exhaled a sigh, and looked up, surprised to see Connly and Estral gone.
“They said good-bye,” Elgin told her, “but you were too deep into that scroll.” He looked over her copying. “That is good work. And maybe you’ve come to a good place to stop.”
“Not quite,” she said.
“Well, my old bones don’t take kindly to a chair overlong. Time for me to look in on Killdeer and Bucket. Don’t stay too long, or you’re apt to make mistakes.”
“All right,” she said. She watched the old warrior limp his way out of the records room. She realized she was alone, the weight of the dark weighing down on her from above.
Alone, but for the ghostly presences who watched.
WEAPONS
Karigan was not sure how long she had been working when she finally set the pen down and shook sand onto her paper. She’d copied a fair bit of the scroll with no real idea of what it said.
She sat back and rubbed the nape of her neck. The records room had remained quiet, funereal, really. She’d been so focused on the work that she’d lost track of time, hadn’t even heard the city bells. Maybe, when her brooch abandoned her, she could become a scribe. No, doing it occasionally was all right, but how she filled her whole day, every day? She’d go mad.
She stood and stretched, and hoped she had not missed supper. She extinguished the lamp on her table, but left the others burning for Dakrias’ return. She strode from the records room, only to discover two Weapons waiting in the corridor. What were they doing here?
“Rider,” said Brienne Quinn of the tombs, “you are to come with us.”
“Where?”
“No questions,” said Donal.
“What?” And before she knew it, he was blindfolding her. She could not rip it off for the Weapons gripped her arms on either side and started to drag her away. “What in the five hells are you—”
“Silence.” Donal’s deep voice resonated along stone walls, low and threatening. “You will remain silent.”
Or what? she wondered. She did not voice her questions, but plenty streamed through her mind. What in the hells was going on? Why the blindfold? Where were they taking her? Was there some sort of coup going on? Were the Weapons overthrowing the king? In desperation she struggled against their steely grips, but she was nothing against the two of them.
“Peace, Rider,” Brienne said. “It will go easier if you don’t struggle.”
“What are you? Traitors?” And she struggled even harder, kicking, trying to break their hold on her, but they gave no inch, and Donal—she thought it was Donal—twisted her arm behind her back and pinioned it hard enough that she gasped in pain and stopped fighting.
“One more word,” Donal said in his low, threatening voice, “and we shall gag you, as well. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“And, if you struggle, I will break your arm. Do you understand this, as well?”
She nodded again, wondering all over what in the hells was going on. Why were they doing this to her? She could only think nefarious thoughts, had not expected the Weapons to turn on their king.
Their footsteps rang through empty corridors. The records room, like the Rider wing, was located next to an abandoned section of the castle, and the lack of sound from others, and the hollowness she sensed around her, indicated they followed an unused corridor. She had traveled through the abandoned corridors before and preferred not to again, but it seemed she had little choice in the matter.
She thought to count their steps and remember the turnings, but she’d been so shocked she hadn’t done so from the beginning, and there were so many turns she could not have remembered them all, anyway.
Donal and Brienne led her steadily, and firmly, their pace never slackening. Being blindfolded made her feel like she was falling into a great, black pit, but the Weapons did not let her stumble, nor did they shove or drag her. They assisted her up and down short sets of stairs. There were enough of these that she could not say whether they gained or lost elevation, or remained at the same level they’d started from.
Her thoughts circled back to dark conspiracies and coups, but what had the Weapons to gain, and what did they want with her? Surely they didn’t consider her a serious threat.
She strained her senses to get an idea of what was around her, and so noticed a change in the sounds of their footsteps. It felt like the walls abruptly fell away. The air was different. They had left the corridor beh
ind and must have entered a chamber. Abruptly, they halted.
“Stay,” Donal commanded.
“I am not a dog,” she snapped.
No one replied, and it took a moment for her to realize they no longer held her arms. She whipped the blindfold off and blinked at a solitary lamp aglow at her feet, and absently rubbed the arm Donal had pinned behind her back. The light was suppressed by the heaviness of dark in this vaulted chamber. She could not even see the walls around her, just the nearby support columns. Where was she? Where had the Weapons gone, and why had they left her here?
She was reaching for the lamp so she could use it to help her find her way out when she heard the rapid approach of footsteps. She turned to see a shadow running at her with a bared sword. She squawked and flung herself out of the way.
What in damnation?
The swordsman pivoted. All in black was he, his face covered by a mask. Black, but not a Weapon’s uniform.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
He answered her by stalking forward, light glancing on the sharpened edge of his longsword. She skittered behind a column just out of reach of the lamplight as the sword streaked after her. She called on her fading ability, but it wouldn’t work.
What the hells?
There was little time to consider it for the swordsman was after her again, and as she desperately dodged behind another column, the faint glow of something metallic a few yards away on the floor caught her eye. She could not make out its form for it was beyond the halo of light, but she sprinted and dove after it even as the swordsman pounded behind her.
She came back up with a sword and immediately fended off blows from her attacker. She was so desperate to save herself that she did not wonder how a sword happened to be lying there just when she needed it.
The clash of blades echoed through the room. Karigan was clumsy at first, so taken off guard had she been, and she held off the swordsman only by reflex, thanks to her training. But he was relentless, and she made herself focus, made her movements more intentional. Her opponent was not the hack and slash variety of swordsman, but used refined techniques, forms like those that had been drilled into her by Arms Master Drent.
As the swordsman went into Aspen Leaf, she knew the series of blocks to use. The same for Butcher’s Block and Viper. She was too much on the defensive, she thought, and attempted some more offensive moves trying to reach through his guard.
It was impossible. His sword flashed against hers, and there was a beauty in the rhythm, their footwork weaving them in and out of the columns and light. She thanked the gods she had been training hard with Drent since her return, especially when the swordsman bent unexpectedly and scythed his sword at his legs. She leaped just in time.
To her further surprise, he scurried away and vanished into the dark. She stood there panting and wiped sweat off her brow with her sleeve, keeping alert for his return, but she detected movement from her blind side and whirled just in time to meet another blade.
Clang! Clang! Cling-clang!
Karigan’s mind kept rhythm with the fight by reciting expletives that would have impressed the dock workers down in Corsa Harbor. This was an entirely different opponent—shorter, lighter, quicker, and clearly female for all that she, too, wore a mask.
The first swordsman had been relentless and this one was the same, but the woman’s speed was lightning quick, and she nearly skewered Karigan more than once. She was also versed in the forms, but altered and combined them in unpredictable ways. Karigan had to respond with split-second thinking to defend herself, then went on the offensive in kind, turning a half Crayman’s Circle into Aspen Leaf.
Hah! This is a test, she thought suddenly. Some kind of a—
The woman’s blade slashed through Karigan’s sleeve and into the flesh of her wrist. She cried out and fought to not drop her sword. Her hand turned icy and numb. Without feeling, she could not maintain her hold of the hilt. She darted behind a column to evade the woman’s swift sword and switched hands. Previous injuries to her sword arm had forced her to learn how to fight left-handed, and though she did well, she didn’t do as well as with her right.
When she re-emerged from behind the column, panting hard and blood soaking into her sleeve, she found the swordswoman had vanished. What game were they playing at? She hunted the shadows with her gaze. Just when she thought they might be done with her, heavy footsteps echoed through the chamber, and a huge form, again in black and masked, lumbered into the light.
Karigan knew that shape, and knew it well. “Flogger?” she demanded. Her old sparring partner who knew how to hold a grudge.
He just laughed, then fell upon her like an avalanche, the quickness of his blade belying his size. Each time their swords met, she felt the concussion through her entire body. Her arm, her elbow and shoulder, burned as he took her through some of the most complicated forms of her training, and at speed. She was so weary at this point that only adrenaline kept her moving.
She had no idea how long she’d been in this chamber fighting, but it felt like hours. Flogger had technique, but he also possessed brute force and he slammed her sword out of her hand. She backed away, one hand numb and useless, the other stinging, and then Flogger rushed her.
She dodged aside from his blade and then stepped in to trip him. He sprawled onto the floor, his sword sliding from his grip. Karigan turned to run . . . to run where? She could not see the doorway to this chamber. In her moment of indecision, Flogger scrambled to his feet and grabbed her around the neck from behind. She gave him the usual elbow to his gut, but it moved him little. Boots guarded his shins and feet. She twisted in his grip so she faced him and jammed her fingers through one of the eye holes of his mask.
He howled and let her go, clapping his hand to his eye. She kicked him behind the knee; it buckled, and he collapsed to the floor like a great tree felled. She found her sword and swept it round to take him out.
“Hold!” someone cried, and lamps flickered to life in a wide circle around her, and she could see that the chamber was indeed vast and round. Each of the lamps was held by a black-garbed, masked person, the angle of light turning their visages demonic. All of them were armed.
Karigan held the sword ready to plunge into Flogger’s back. “What is this?” she demanded. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill him now?” She jabbed the tip of the blade into his back to make her point, and he grunted.
“Because,” said a pleasant male voice, “we should hate to execute you for killing a brother-at-arms.”
THE CHAMBER OF PROVING
“What in the hells are you saying?” she demanded, jabbing Flogger again.
One of the people in black walked forward, lamp in hand, and removed his mask. Fastion?
“Peace, Sir Karigan. This was but a test.”
“What the hells kind of test?” She did not release Flogger.
Others came forward removing their masks—Brienne and Donal, Willis and Rory, and several others, and finally Arms Master Drent.
Drent’s presence in this escapade did not endear him to her at all.
“Let Flogger go,” Drent said. “This was your test for acquiring swordmaster status.”
Karigan stared incredulously at him. “This? This is how you test? This is what you do to your initiates?”
“Every one of us,” Fastion said, “has been through a similar challenge. Of course, this was for the first level. The tests become more interesting as you climb the levels.”
Karigan was too angry to care about levels. “You abduct me and attack me, and don’t let me know what in five hells is going on? With sharpened blades?”
“How could we truly test your ability to respond to a threat? If you knew what was going on without the element of fear, it would have been just another practice yard exercise.”
“You bastards!” she spat. “You git of bloody fekking goats!�
�� She loosed all the curses she had ever learned on the docks of Corsa Harbor, and flung them all at Drent and the encircling Weapons. They showed no reaction, which only incensed her more, and when she finally came to a sputtering end, a pall of silence fell over the chamber and no one moved.
“Well,” someone said finally, “she has passed the test for swearing.”
“She doesn’t need a sword with that sharp tongue,” another replied.
“Five hells.” She tossed the sword aside. It clattered with a resounding echo onto the floor. Flogger took his opportunity to escape and scrambled away.
“That is not how a swordmaster treats a sword,” Drent observed.
That set her off again, with more colorful language. Those assembled did not try to interrupt. They just waited patiently.
“And this?” she demanded, raising her bloody wrist with its numb hand. “This was part of the test?”
“Actually, yes,” Brienne said. She removed the bracer from her right wrist and pulled up her sleeve to reveal a scar on the back of her wrist. The others did likewise.
“You idiots,” Karigan said. “You stupid idiots. Does the king know you do this to your own people?”
“He is a swordmaster,” Fastion replied simply, “of the third order.”
Oh, gods. Karigan suddenly felt exhausted. She thrust her hand in Brienne’s face. “So, what is wrong with my hand? It has no feeling—I can’t wiggle my fingers.”
“A numbing agent that was smeared on my blade before I engaged you,” Brienne replied, “which will also ensure a scar forms. The loss of feeling will wear off in time. A few hours, perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” Karigan had an urge to swear again, but she was spent.
Brienne just smiled as enigmatically as an Eletian.
“Does anyone,” Drent began, addressing all who were assembled, “wish to speak against this Rider becoming a swordmaster of the first order?”
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