No one spoke.
Drent grunted. “So it is done.”
“What is done?” Karigan demanded.
“Congratulations,” he replied, “you passed the test.”
She wanted to sit down, but managed to keep to her feet.
“We deemed you already a swordmaster,” Fastion said, “for past deeds you have performed, most recently your work against the aureas slee. You very likely saved our queen. However, despite the fact we have bypassed previous tests, this final one was required for the sake of tradition, and to formalize your status.”
Brienne produced a length of black silk. “For your sword.”
Karigan took the silk, bemused. It was what marked one as a swordmaster. Besides the slash across the back of her wrist, she thought darkly. At the moment, she just wanted to wrap the silk around someone’s neck and throttle them. Instead, she muttered, “I don’t have a sword.”
“As I recall,” Drent said, “you tossed it on the floor.”
Donal picked it up and handed it to her, hilt first. It did weigh nicely in her hand, but it was a longsword. “This is mine? But it’s not a saber.”
“Of course it’s not a saber,” Drent grumbled. “Sometimes you are very limited in your thinking. Most of us have more than one sword.” He gave her his gargoyle grin. “Many more.”
“Your First Rider,” Brienne said, “had a greatsword and a saber.”
That was all right then, Karigan supposed.
“Look at the etching on the blade.”
Karigan found the sigil of the Weapons, a shield etched and blacked into the blade. She looked up questioningly.
“You have been to us a sister-at-arms,” Fastion explained. “An honorary Weapon, and now we wish to formalize your honorary standing.”
“There are these.” Brienne held out a handful of patches. They were embroidered black shields. “For the sleeves of your uniforms.”
Karigan guessed that once her hand returned to normal, she would be doing some sewing—not just the mending of the slash through her sleeve Brienne had made, but sewing patches. Not something she was particularly good at.
“The king,” Brienne added, “approves of us formalizing your status, so no one should object to the addition to your uniform.”
The king approved . . . She bet Captain Mapstone might have a thing or two to say about it, regardless.
“It has never really been explained to me,” she said, “what it means to be an honorary Weapon.”
“Perhaps we should remove to someplace else where we may have refreshment and celebrate your accomplishment,” Brienne replied. “And there we can answer your questions.”
As they prepared to leave, Drent produced a plain black scabbard, in which Karigan sheathed her new sword. They filed from the chamber, and as she passed through the doorway, she felt a warming of her brooch. She paused and turned.
“What is that room?” she asked Brienne.
“The Chamber of Proving, an ancient space from the days after the Long War.”
“My ability . . . it didn’t work in there.”
“Yes, it has the power to diminish magic. It was used during the Scourge.”
The Scourge, when those who hated magic attempted to eradicate magic users whether they were innocent of war crimes or not. Karigan touched her brooch protectively, and watched as Donal and Fastion closed the chamber’s ironbound doors and locked them.
“It was an ideal space to test you,” Brienne said, “so you could demonstrate your sword work without reliance on your special ability. Come, we will answer more of your questions over food.”
Their lamps showed the way through labyrinthine corridors. Even though Karigan was not blindfolded this time, she did not think she could ever find the Chamber of Proving again by herself. Along the way, she found out she was the first Green Rider since Gwyer Warhein to complete swordmaster initiate training.
“It is terrible to say,” Brienne told her, “but many Riders die before they complete their training, like F’ryan Coblebay, or are just too often away. It is not for lack of talent that there have been so few Green Rider swordmasters. Your captain might have been one, but her duties took her on another path.”
Karigan hadn’t known this about the captain. When they passed the records room, the doors were shut and undoubtedly locked. Karigan wondered what the time was. Past supper, certainly, if her stomach’s growling was any indication. The main passages were also quiet with the few courtiers and servants present looking askance at all the black-clad warriors with a single weary Green Rider in their midst. Karigan recognized one of the onlookers with her buckets of ashes and smiled at her.
At various points, Drent and other Weapons peeled away to attend to other duties, or went wherever it was that Weapons went. Some had houses in the city when they were not required to be on duty in the castle.
When they reached the great dining hall of the Weapons, servants were sent scurrying for food and wine, and Karigan’s wound was cleaned and bandaged. It cut across an older scar acquired during adventures down in the tombs. Happily, feeling began to tingle in her fingers. Perhaps her hand would soon be back to normal. She thought back to when Donal and Brienne had spirited her away from the records room.
“Donal,” she said, “would you have really broken my arm if I kept struggling?”
“Best,” he said, “that we did not have to find out, eh?”
Karigan glowered, feeling a surge of anger rise up again, then realized that perhaps he was joking. Then again, maybe he was not. It was hard to tell with Weapons.
While they awaited food, Fastion showed her how to tie the strip of black silk to her sword just beneath the guard. Each knot held a meaning, she learned.
“The first is for loyalty,” Fastion said as he tied the knot. “The second is for honor. The third is for protection, and the fourth is for death.”
“Death?”
He nodded. “This is, after all, a sword. Its purpose is to reap death.”
“Am I going to have to say, ‘death is honor’?”
He gave her a rare smile. “It is the motto of the Black Shields, and you are an honorary Black Shield.”
Mutton, bread, and potatoes, and bowls of barley soup, were served, and Donal and Brienne sat with Karigan to eat. The rest of the Weapons took to other tables or stole quietly away.
“As an honorary Weapon,” Brienne said, “you will receive less protest from Agemon, should you have to enter the tombs.”
Karigan looked up from her soup. “I can go into the tombs? I mean, officially?”
“Agemon will not force you to be a caretaker, but entry to the tombs should not be undertaken unless there is need.”
Karigan had no desire to enter the tombs anyway if she didn’t have to. All those corpses down there . . . Agemon, the chief caretaker, and all his fellow caretakers lived in the tombs. Whole families did. Besides caretakers, only Weapons and royalty were allowed within. All other interlopers were forced to remain as caretakers, never to see the living sun again.
“Being an honorary Weapon means,” Donal said, “that we may call upon you in need. We find you worthy, even though you have not gone through the training at the Forge.”
The Forge was the academy located on Breaker Island where swordmasters were either “forged” into Weapons, or rejected if they fell short. All Weapons were swordmasters, but not all swordmasters were Weapons.
“Because of the Rider call,” Donal continued, “you cannot attend the academy, but we have seen through your deeds that you have, shall we say, the spirit of a Weapon.”
Karigan grimaced, not seeing herself in that light, as the stone-faced, black-clad, and silent warrior lurking in the shadows.
“Though you do not guard the king and queen, or the tombs, your actions in the past have helped save all three.”
It was pleasant to receive acknowledgment for her deeds, but what sort of onus might this put on her? They would be calling on her at need? How often and under what circumstances? She was about to ask when Brienne raised her goblet of wine for a toast, and the others who remained in the hall raised theirs as well.
“Congratulations, Sir Karigan,” Brienne said. “Yours is a unique accomplishment and position.”
They clinked goblets together and drank.
“Have you any words?” Brienne asked.
No, Karigan thought, she didn’t, but then she gave them a half-smile. “Death is honor?”
THE SWORDMASTER’S PATRON
“It is an intriguing thought,” Laren said as she walked beside her king in a corridor of the royal wing. The gazes of portrait subjects looked out at them, though that of Queen Isen had been removed for repair. Did Zachary feel the weight of their watching eyes, the judgment of his ancestors whenever he walked these corridors? They strolled at a leisurely pace, two Hillander terriers cavorting around them, and the Weapon Ellen following at a discreet distance. Gone for the evening was Zachary’s usual entourage of courtiers, advisors, and personnel. It was a rare moment for her to speak privately with him.
“I have my misgivings,” he replied.
“Why? Imagine finding and having contact with a people thought long extinct. Imagine that they might ally themselves with us against Second Empire.”
Zachary did not reply at first, but walked on. He looked a little tired to her. Not terribly, but she could see it around his eyes, as if he’d been keeping long nights. His movements, though, were as sure and steady as ever, showing no other signs of exhaustion.
“Why would the p’ehdrose align themselves with us after they have hidden themselves for so long?” he asked. “It strikes me as though they have no wish to be found.”
It had come to their attention, during the restoration of the great stained glass dome that arched over the records room, that during the Long War, there had been more than just Eletians, Rhovans, and a smattering of the other known realms that had fought Mornhavon the Black and his Arcosians. The League had been represented as a three-fold leaf. Only, when the stained glass dome was cleaned, removing centuries of accumulated grime, they learned that it was actually a four-fold leaf, and one of the panels revealed that what they thought had been horsemen were actually the half-man, half-moose people that were the p’ehdrosians.
“You may have a point,” Laren replied, “but we won’t know until we ask, will we?”
They emerged onto a gallery that overlooked the main castle hall. Zachary leaned over the balustrade, watching his people, unaware of their king’s presence, move freely about down below. His terriers sat at his feet.
“The Eletians promised a guide if we furnished one of our own people,” he said.
“Just one?”
“Yes. They figured two people could move more quickly and inconspicuously than a larger group into the northlands and evade Second Empire.”
“Makes sense,” Laren replied.
He straightened and gazed hard at her. “Are you so ready to send a Rider on such a whimsical endeavor? Even the Eletians cannot say if the p’ehdrose truly still exist or, if so, exactly where.”
“One of my Riders?”
“Their request,” he said, “not my idea, though it does hold a certain logic.”
“A messenger to carry your greetings and suggestion of an alliance.”
“Yes,” he replied, “to serve as an ambassador of sorts.”
“And the Eletians requested a Green Rider?”
“Not just requested, but require. They have a specific one in mind.”
“Karigan,” she murmured.
“Who else?” His smile was sardonic.
Who else, indeed. It had been an easy guess, for of all the Sacoridians they could choose from, it was Karigan with whom they’d had the most contact. Aside from their wishes, she was a good choice anyway, a very able Rider who had seen and done much. Plus, her status as a knight of the realm would give her more weight in dealing with the p’ehdrose from a diplomatic standpoint.
“She said she saw p’ehdrose,” Laren murmured, “in the future time, stuffed and on display in a museum.”
“Yes, lending credence to their existence. The Eletians seem keen to seek out the p’ehdrose, and as our alliance with Eletia is still tentative, I’d prefer not to disappoint them.”
Laren could not discern what he thought of Karigan going north with an Eletian guide in search of legendary p’ehdrosians, for he kept his expression schooled. Was he loath to send her away after she had only so recently returned? Returned from being presumed dead? Or, did he think it would be a means of keeping her safely out of the way as they engaged in conflict with Second Empire? Both, she thought.
At the sound of many boots hammering on flagstone below, they both peered down at a large group of Weapons crossing the main hall. There was one person in green in their midst who was, unmistakably, the subject of their conversation.
“What is that about?” she demanded.
There was a slight smile on Zachary’s face. “The first Green Rider swordmaster since Gwyer Warhein, if our history is correct.”
Laren stared at him. “Why didn’t anyone tell me she had been made a swordmaster?”
“I did not know until just now. See the sword?”
Laren looked again just before Karigan and the Weapons disappeared from view. She carried a longsword.
“I did know they were testing her tonight, though I think we had already settled the question of whether or not she was swordmaster quality due to all she has done on behalf of the realm. The test, however, was needed to ensure we were correct about her skills, and to mark the occasion. You should also be made aware that the Weapons have chosen to formalize her status as an honorary Weapon.”
Laren was aghast. “I would like to know why I was not informed. She is my Rider.”
“As you have reminded me on various occasions,” he replied, “they are my Riders, and that includes you.”
Laren was not amused to have her words flung back at her. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes.” He nodded with a gleam in his eye. “You are their commander. I am sorry, Laren, but Weapons have their own agendas, and while Karigan is still, on the whole, a Green Rider, her abilities have developed in such a way that to contain them to a single discipline would be a disservice to the realm.”
Laren could only stare incredulously at him.
“Now that her status as an honorary Weapon has been formalized, there will be some additions to her uniform.”
Laren threw her hands in the air, and then paced up and down the gallery in agitation in an attempt to check her anger. The terriers bounded after her as if it were a game. Would it have hurt to have simply told her this was coming? When she halted once more before Zachary, his expression was more sympathetic.
“Laren, you are my oldest and dearest friend,” he said. “Truly, the elder sister I never had. I would never do anything to undermine your command or the integrity of the Green Riders. The acknowledgment of the Weapons is just that: an acknowledgment of deeds accomplished and the esteem in which they’ve held her for a while now. In dire need, they may call upon her, but otherwise, she won’t be diverted from her regular duties. Isn’t that right, Ellen?”
From her post by the wall, the Weapon replied, “Yes, sire.”
Laren folded her arms. She had, of course, known Karigan was in swordmaster initiate training, which, if all went well, would lead to swordmaster status. She’d known the Weapons held her in some esteem. That they would formalize it did make her feel as if they were taking something of her Green Rider away, no matter what Zachary said. And would it have been so hard for them to say something ahead of time? Yes, Weapons had their own agenda, but it did not hav
e to mean a lack of professional courtesy. She would have a word with Les Tallman, one of the king’s advisors and the head of the Weapons. While she was at it, she would go after Drent, too.
“There may be other tests ahead for her,” Zachary said.
“What do you mean?” She could not keep the suspicion from her voice.
“She is a swordmaster of the first order now. There are four levels, the fourth being when one becomes a Weapon.”
“Are you expecting Karigan to become a full Weapon?”
“No. Not while she hears the Rider call.”
“And what level are you?”
“Third. As high as I can go as king, since I can’t be a Weapon, too.”
Laren gazed down into the quiet main hall once again. Few people moved about, none in a hurry. Suddenly she felt very tired, her joints aching.
Zachary placed his hand on her shoulder. “I understand if you are angry with me,” he said in a subdued voice. “None of this was meant as an offense to you. Having a Rider who is a swordmaster, that is a worthy honor to your leadership.”
He could make nice all he wanted, she thought, but it did not alleviate the sting of her command being undermined. She narrowed her eyes at him. “The sword.”
“What sword?”
“The one Karigan was carrying. Where did it come from?”
“One of the finest smiths in the land.”
“That is not what I meant. A swordmaster either has a patron who buys the sword, or they must come up with the funds to purchase one themselves. I am guessing it was not her father who bought it for her. He probably has no idea his daughter is now a swordmaster.” He was going to love that. “Does Karigan have a patron?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Moonling,” she said. “Does she know it is from you?”
“No, and she will not. My orders are that she is not to be told. She didn’t take well to the last gift I tried to give her.”
The two of them, Zachary and Karigan . . . It was hopeless. At least from Zachary’s end. Karigan, with her loss of Cade, was likely too involved in her grief to be thinking much about Zachary.
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