“The pyre will be burning into the night,” Enver said. “I do not think another small fire in the hearth will be of further harm.”
“It is damp in here,” Estral added.
“Very well,” Karigan said, “one last fire.”
She set about righting chairs along a heavy table. The main lodge was pretty empty, the supplies likely stolen, or already sent south with other lumbermen who’d been done for the season. Enver went out to tend the pyre and check the remains of the other buildings once more, while Estral prepared to build a fire from the supply of wood stacked beside the hearth.
“What is this?” Estral exclaimed. She was tugging something out from between sticks of wood.
Karigan joined her by the hearth. “What did you find?”
Estral held a leather pouch. She opened it and shook out the contents. Two gold, glistening objects fell onto her hand. “I know these,” she whispered. “My father was here.” She held a gold signet ring, and a brooch in the shape of a harp that was the badge of a Selium minstrel. “The ring has been passed down through generations of Fioris.”
Karigan could not dispute the evidence. Lord Fiori had been there, but where was he now? Did his body lie somewhere out in the forest where they couldn’t find it? She dared not say it aloud.
“He had to have a reason for concealing these,” Estral said. “He needed to hide the fact he was the Lord Fiori.”
“Might someone have stolen them from him and concealed them here?” Karigan asked. Estral gave her such a look that she did not pursue that line of inquiry. The idea of someone trying to steal from Lord Fiori, who was a big man and an able swordfighter, was difficult to conceive.
Estral continued to cradle the objects in her hand. “Got to find him,” she said with determination. “Whoever attacked this place could have taken him. Or, he’s hiding out there somewhere.” She swept her arm out to indicate the world. She started pacing back and forth. Just as suddenly, she swung around to face Karigan, her fingers now closed around the ring and brooch. “Second Empire,” she said fiercely. “Second Empire must have him.”
“Let’s not jump to—”
“Who else would have attacked this camp?” Estral demanded. “It wasn’t groundmites, even I can see that.”
“Well—”
“It had to be Second Empire. They attacked this place. They took my father.”
“Bandits? Maybe?” Karigan suggested, though Second Empire had been her first thought, as well. She had never seen her friend quite so wound up.
“Bandits? What in the hells would they want in a lumber camp?”
“Er, lumber?” Karigan said in a small voice. There was such a thing as timber poaching, but probably not this far north.
“You think this is a joke?”
“No, but—”
“Karigan, this is my father. He could be close by. He could be in the Lone Forest.”
“Estral, please, just calm—”
“Don’t you tell me to calm down. I know you don’t want to go anywhere near the Lone Forest. You’ve made it abundantly clear. Whatever happened to the Karigan who would confront danger, no matter the odds?”
Karigan was too dumbfounded to respond. She had never been that person, had she? Ready to just throw herself into one perilous situation after another? Maybe there were a few times, but they had been with good cause and it wasn’t like she’d wanted to. There’d been circumstances. Yes, circumstances.
Estral gave her a look of disgust and strode down the length of the room. Karigan watched her in astonishment, then ran to catch up. She grabbed Estral’s shoulder. “Where are you going?”
Estral pulled away. “To go look for my father.” She strode off again.
Karigan sprinted ahead to block the door. “Listen to me. I might not seem like the person you want me to be at the moment, but you aren’t being yourself, either.” Before Estral could protest, she continued, “You found a clue today that your father was here. Let’s talk it out, go over all the possibilities. You know Enver said we’d be traveling near the Lone Forest. But it doesn’t make sense to go blundering in there, right? Getting caught ourselves won’t help your father. Plus, it’ll be dark soon. You won’t make it there before nightfall.”
Estral stared at her, her eyes still a stormy sea green. Then she shifted subtly, her stance and expression relaxing.
“All right,” she said warily, “going off tonight is not sensible. But I will go.”
Karigan sighed. The door bumped into her back. “Huh?”
“Galadheon?” Enver called from outside. “Something is blocking the door.”
• • •
They talked in front of the fire over cups of tea. Enver supported Karigan, saying that it wouldn’t be prudent to ride off on a search without due planning. They tried to offer alternatives as to where Lord Fiori might be and how his ring and brooch ended up stashed among the sticks of firewood, but Estral would have none of it, though she agreed not to run off without them. For the time being.
When it came time to retire, Enver went out to stand beneath the eaves of the wood and commune with the voice of the world. Estral took first watch and sat on the front step of the lodge. That left Karigan to try to sleep. She tossed and turned in her blankets, however, worrying that despite Estral’s assurances, she would ride off without them. No, Karigan did not want to go to the Lone Forest. No, she was not so ready to face such peril without good cause. Was Estral right that she’d become too cautious?
“Damnation.”
She decided she wasn’t going to get any sleep, so she rose, slipped on her boots, and grabbed her coat, longsword, and bonewood staff, and headed outside. She found Estral sitting placidly on the front step, looking out into the night. The pyre had died down a little, and the air was still so that the smoke and the worst of the stench drifted skyward, carrying the souls of the dead into the heavens.
“You might as well head in and try to sleep,” Karigan told her. “At least one of us should be rested tomorrow.”
Estral did not argue and stood. Before she went in, she said, “I’m sorry I got so hot earlier. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“You are worried about your father. If I were in your shoes, I’d be the same.”
Estral smiled sadly. “I have been worried for a long time, and I guess it just built up.” She turned to go in, then halted. “Also, I’m sorry for what I said about you and danger. You’ve grown a lot, and after all you’ve been through, leaping headlong into danger would have meant you had not learned from your experiences.”
“Thank you. I think.” It didn’t make her younger, inexperienced self sound very good.
Estral smiled again and went inside, leaving Karigan alone to contemplate the blanket of stars above, and the glowing orange embers of the pyre of the dead below.
SPIRITS IN THE SMOKE
Karigan’s chin slipped off her hand as she nodded off. She shook her head in an attempt to wake up.
“This won’t do,” she muttered groggily.
She stood to stretch her back. Movement near the embers of the pyre made her catch her breath. She stilled to listen, but at first heard only the restlessness of tree branches in a breath of air. As her sight sharpened, she noticed the smoke from the pyre winding in sinuous ribbons along the ground, where before it had been drifting straight up into the sky.
The smoke then billowed and reformed into humanlike shapes, six of them. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. The smoke apparitions drifted toward her.
Ssseee . . . their voices hissed. Ssseee . . .
She backed away until she was pressed up against the door. Condor whinnied from the paddock.
Ssseee . . .
“See what?” she demanded.
The smoke figures elongated and twined together. Before she knew what was happening, the smoke gusted into he
r face, forced its way into her mouth and nose, burned down her windpipe. She was held there, her back arched and eyes watering, unable to breathe with smoke filling her lungs, and then the visions came.
It was the lumber camp in daylight, and snow flurried down. She saw as if from multiple pairs of eyes, which was confusing. Arrows whizzed by. Men scattered. They ran for the woods. Armed warriors entered the camp, hunting each man down. She caught the flash of a tattoo on the wrist of one of the assailants—the dead tree of Second Empire. One by one, each viewpoint vanished as the life of each man was snuffed out. As the last faded, she saw an old woman walk out of the woods, snowflakes alighting on her gray hair. Grandmother.
Then all went dark and she exhaled smoke. She fell to her knees, retching and choking, her lungs burning. She could not stop.
“Galadheon, let me help,” came a gentle voice. Enver helped her into the lodge.
Estral sat up from her bedroll. “What’s going on?”
“Please boil some water,” Enver instructed. He eased Karigan down onto a chair. “Better that you are sitting up for the moment.”
Karigan could only cough. It was not as severe as it had been outside, but she could not get in an easy breath. While Estral moved about the hearth, Enver rummaged through his packs and . . . She was too busy coughing and her eyes too runny to see what he was doing exactly.
An interminable time elapsed. Her chest felt tight, hurt, and all she tasted was smoke. Enver stood before her and placed his hands on her head. His touch was soothing. He began to sing though she was not aware of the words. His voice resonated through her like cool, clean air into her lungs. It made her easier, made breathing less of a challenge.
Without breaking off his song, he accepted a pot from Estral and crumpled leaves into it. He held the pot before her and said, “Breathe deep of the steam.”
She obeyed and an herbal fragrance penetrated through the stench of smoke, cooled and calmed her irritated throat and lungs. The coughing quieted.
“What happened?” Estral demanded.
“Smoke,” Enver said. “Unnatural smoke.”
“Second Empire,” Karigan said in a hoarse whisper.
“They’re here?” Estral asked in alarm.
Karigan shook her head. “Killed the men.” She started coughing again.
“Don’t talk,” Enver told her. “Just inhale the steam.”
She obeyed and he started singing again. She was doing much better, but the stinging of her airways persisted. She actually started to doze off, or so it seemed, but a need came upon her to finish what had been left incomplete. She stood and, like a sleepwalker, left Enver and Estral and headed for the door.
“Karigan?” Estral called. Her voice was a far-off dream, and Karigan paid it no heed. She was only peripherally aware of them as they followed her outside. She strode purposefully toward the pyre. The smoke hazed along the ground.
“Karigan,” Estral called again, “what are you doing?”
“Let her go,” Enver said.
Smoke apparitions formed before the fire, billowing and wavering, waiting. A voice rose up inside her.
“Sleep,” she commanded. “It has been witnessed. You will be avenged.”
The figures of smoke melted away until there were just normal wisps of it lifting from the remains of the pyre. She exhaled, and more smoke was expelled upon her breath.
• • •
She lay upon her bedroll. It had all been a dream after all, but then she coughed and tasted smoke. The steaming pot sat near her head.
“What in the hells?” she said, her voice ragged.
“That is the question,” Estral replied, kneeling beside her. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. Smoky.”
“Then you’d best sleep. We’ve still got a couple hours till daylight.”
“Enver?”
“He’s keeping watch outside. Do you need me to get him?”
“No.”
“Would you like a drink? Are you warm enough?”
At the suggestion of a drink, Karigan felt as parched as the pyre’s flames. “Water, please.”
Estral brought her a skin. “Enver says you are to take it slowly.”
Karigan did, and when she had her fill, she lay back down, exhausted. “What happened, exactly? It’s all a little confusing.”
“There were spirits in the smoke. That’s what Enver said, and that somehow you had inhaled them.” There was an edge of incredulity to Estral’s voice.
It came back to her now. “The smoke, it—it was forced on me, and I saw through their eyes, the lumbermen, being attacked by Second Empire.”
“Did you see my father?”
“No.” She closed her eyes.
“After that,” Estral continued, “Enver brought you in and tried to calm your coughing.”
“I think I remember that.”
“Then you probably remember going back outside and talking to the smoke.”
“What?” Karigan rose on her elbows. “Wait . . .” That had seemed all part of a dream. “That really happened?”
“Yes.” Estral gazed at her with a strange look in her eye. “I am not exactly sure what you did. You sort of changed your voice . . .”
“What did I say?”
“You told the smoke, the apparitions, I guess, to sleep.”
Karigan eased back down into her blankets. “I don’t remember.”
In the flickering light of the fire, Estral watched her friend drift back to sleep, her breathing easier. This time she did not writhe and mutter, but rested peacefully. Estral had heard, of course, about Karigan’s various adventures since that day long ago when she’d run away from Selium. Hearing was incredible enough, but watching her fight off groundmites, or commanding smoke apparitions to sleep? That was something else entirely.
She recalled the scene of Karigan standing out by the pyre, surrounded by smoke. There was a faint shimmer about her. Estral had not been able to see her clearly, whether it was the smoke or—or what? Karigan had ordered the ghosts to sleep in a voice that was overlain with the authority of the heavens.
She tried to recall Karigan the schoolgirl, the troublemaker. Much had happened to her since those days in Selium, and although the girl Estral had once known reappeared at unexpected moments, she wasn’t sure what to make of this other Karigan, this Karigan who crossed through time and faced Mornhavon the Black and talked to ghosts. She only knew that she must write it all down, and in doing so, maybe better understand. But even Karigan did not appear to understand, herself.
Enver entered the building. When he reached her, he said, “How is the Galadheon doing?”
“She drank some water.”
“Ah, that is good. Tomorrow she should have some chocolate.” He knelt beside Karigan and placed his hand on her brow. “Yes, she is easier.”
“Enver, do you know what happened out there?”
“She put the spirits to rest.”
“Yes, but . . .” Estral tried not to think about how outrageous it sounded. “How can she do that?”
He now sat cross-legged on the floor. He gazed down at Karigan before speaking. “You know that her special ability allows her to cross thresholds, yes?”
“Like going into the future?”
“When there are extraordinary forces at work, yes. But otherwise, she can fade out, turn invisible, as it were. What is really happening is that she is stepping onto a threshold. These thresholds cross the layers of the world. It allows her to detect and communicate with the shades of the mortal dead.”
“And tell them to sleep.”
“Yes. Because of her ability, there is another entity who speaks through her. She acts on his behalf, whether she is aware of it or not.”
“Who?”
He glanced at Karigan who slept peacef
ully and innocently beside him. When he turned his gaze back to Estral, he looked uncertain about what to say. “It is said among the Eletians that a couple years ago, by working on this entity’s behalf, she rescued the living world from a great calamity.”
“And the entity is?” Estral demanded in exasperation.
“Your god of death.”
GHOSTS
“You have the command of them,” the ghostly Rider said. “You must not let them into you.”
She had walked out of a smoky mist into the Painted Turtle, only the inn was larger and built at exaggerated angles. An enormous butter cream pie almost covered the whole tabletop. The edges of the common room fell into shadows through the murk of smoke. The Rider joined her at the table. He wore ancient garb, and carried with him a bow and quiver of arrows. The horn of the captain was slung over his shoulder.
“You cannot let them control you,” the Rider said, his eyes the deep wells of the heavens. “You must control them. There will be those of a dark nature who will try to trick you, to take advantage, they who have no wish to be contained or subjugated.”
“How do I do that?” she asked.
“You can will it, just as you will yourself to fade out when you use your ability. Remember also, the gods are capricious. Westrion will use you, but he will not always help you. He will only help you if there is some advantage to himself.”
It all made sense in the way only a dream would, she thought.
The Rider stood. “It is time I left.”
“Wait,” she said, “what is your name?”
He smiled. “We have met before.” He turned and his winged horse brooch flashed gold as he disappeared into the smoke.
Another man stepped out of shadow and gazed down at her. She knew him immediately.
“Cade!” she tried to rise so she could fling her arms around him, but she could not leave her chair. She was dead weight.
He did not look right. His eyes were burning coals of orange. His skin was slashed and scorched. Blood oozed from open wounds.
Firebrand Page 48
