Firebrand

by Kristen Britain

  Zachary felt the blood drain from his head. He’d known, of course, from his own brief glance at her back, that even she would not have withstood much more, but to hear it so stated?

  “Enver has done remarkable work with the wounds,” Destarion continued. “Rider G’ladheon is otherwise physically healthy, though very weak. Enver tells me that at first she fought against the pain and weakness, but now she has given up.”

  “Her spirit,” Enver said, “of which we’ve spoken.”

  “So there is nothing new you can tell me?” Zachary asked.

  “She is unable to sleep well,” Destarion said. “If one cannot sleep, the mind is not able to rest and the body regenerate, and as a result, the spirit, as Enver calls it, can fall very low. The patient’s dolor then becomes a detriment to the healing process. Enver has tried various remedies to aid Rider G’ladheon’s sleep, but none have worked sufficiently. So I am going to administer a soporific of my own concocting.”

  Zachary crossed his arms. “Like you gave Laren Mapstone the night you and your fellow conspirators decided I required a deathbed wedding?” He couldn’t help his rancor.

  Destarion bowed his head. “I deserve punishment, my lord. I wronged you, and I wronged Laren, who was my friend. The soporific I, er, gave Laren was more basic. The one I’ve readied for Rider G’ladheon is more complex and healthful. I call it ‘Morphia.’ It is infused with extract of poppy seed.”

  “Then do it,” Zachary said gruffly.

  “Yes, my lord.” Destarion reentered the tent.

  “Do you agree with Destarion’s conclusions and treatments?” Zachary asked Enver.

  Enver nodded. “His lore is sound, and he is skilled in the healing arts.”

  “It would reassure me if you would watch over what he does.”

  “I will, Firebrand.”

  Nyssa had beaten her. She was broken and useless and weak, everything Nyssa said she was. It had gotten to a point that all she heard was Nyssa’s voice in her head, even when Connly came to see her, even when Master Destarion examined her back. She replied to their questions with a simple “yes” or “no,” if she answered at all.

  And then, Master Destarion returned and showed her the vial of fluid. “This will help you sleep, Rider,” he said. “It is potent, so I am going to give you only a quarter of the contents.”

  Karigan gazed blearily at the vial. “What is it?”

  “I call it Morphia,” he replied. “Extract of poppy seed can be very efficacious for pain and sleeplessness.”

  “Morphia” sparked some memory of the future time. She remembered drifting in peaceful nothingness. Yes, she thought, it would help her sleep and forget.

  You think you can escape me? Nyssa goaded. Then drink it. Drink the whole thing.

  Karigan peered up at her, that vicious smile on her face, the blood dripping infinitely from the barbs on the thongs of her whip. Yes, drinking the Morphia would be the only way to silence Nyssa.

  Destarion removed the stopper to pour her dose into a small cup with measurements etched on its side.

  What’s the point of fighting? Nyssa said. Drink it all and you can rest.

  There was no point, Karigan thought. None at all. She simply wanted to rest. She snatched the vial right out of Destarion’s grasp.

  “What?” He gazed at his empty hand in surprise.

  Karigan tossed her head back and started drinking.

  “Rider! No!” Destarion cried. He grabbed for the vial, but she rocked away from him and swallowed more.

  That’s it, Nyssa told her. Soon you will have peace.

  Liquid dripped down Karigan’s chin and spilled on the tent floor. When she observed Nyssa gloating, she paused. Some small part of her mind that was still her own stopped, resisted.

  Drink it! Nyssa said. Finish it.

  But Karigan resisted, and Destarion pried her fingers from around the vial. She drifted toward darkness, and at some point she heard the king calling to her, shaking her.

  “Had to make her shut up,” she murmured, and then there was nothing.

  BEING THE KING AGAIN

  “Rider! No!” Destarion cried.

  Zachary needed no more than that to charge into the tent after Enver, with Donal on his heels. He grabbed Destarion by the front of his shirt.

  “What have you done?” he demanded.

  “I didn’t—she—she drank the extract—too much of it! I couldn’t stop her.”

  Zachary stared down at Karigan. To all appearances, she was peacefully asleep.

  “Don’t you understand?” Destarion said. “Drinking too much of it could cause her to stop breathing; her heart could fail.”

  Zachary shoved Destarion out of the way and knelt beside Karigan and started shaking her. “Wake up, wake up,” he pleaded.

  “She grabbed the vial right out of my hand,” Destarion said, then he muttered something about her taking her own life.

  Zachary would not have it. “Karigan G’ladheon, wake up. Wake up now!”

  “Had to make her shut up,” Karigan murmured sleepily.

  “What? Who?” He shook her harder, but she was as limp as one dead.

  “We must force her to bring it up,” Destarion said.

  “Firebrand, a moment,” Enver said calmly.

  He took the vial from Destarion and examined it. There was still a small amount of fluid in it. “She did not drink it all,” he said. He then felt around the tent floor near her, then brought his hand to his nose for a sniff. “Some of it was spilled, as well.”

  “Did she drink enough to kill her?” Zachary asked.

  “I do not know this extract,” Enver replied.

  They turned to Destarion, who looked relieved.

  “I—I panicked,” he said. “I thought she drank it all—didn’t realized she spilled so much. No, it is not enough to kill her, but she will sleep hard and be groggy for a day or two upon awakening, with, perhaps, a headache. I do not think she took enough to stop her heart.”

  Zachary stood and thrust the vial at Destarion. “I do not want you near her again. Do you understand?”

  “But—but she did this to herself.”

  Thunderous silence. Then, in a voice flat with anger, Zachary said, “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Enver handed Destarion his satchel, and he left the tent, escorted by Donal.

  Zachary took a moment to contain his fury. Enver knelt again at Karigan’s side, listened to her breathing and peeled back her eyelid to check her eye.

  “Well?” Zachary asked. “Is she going to be all right?”

  Enver did not answer immediately, and the wait was interminable.

  Finally, he replied, “Her body is not distressed. In fact, it may be just what she needed, and she instinctively knew it would provide her with deep sleep.”

  Zachary exhaled. “That is a relief to hear.” Karigan G’ladheon was, he thought, taking years off his own life. She did look more peaceful than he had seen since his rescue. Before, even in her sleep, there had been a tautness to her. It was gone now.

  “I will sit with her to ensure all is well,” Enver said.

  Zachary hesitated, wanted to sit with her himself.

  As though understanding, Enver said, “You’ve Captain Treman to speak with, and after, perhaps, you will sit with her for a while. In the meantime, if there is any change, I will alert you.”

  “If she changes for the worse?”

  “I’ve my own healing skills. Be easy, Firebrand, I feel she’ll be well, and even better when she awakens.”

  “Thank you. I am reassured.”

  He took one last look at Karigan. She breathed deeply and regularly, and he stepped outside the tent to find Connly and Estral waiting anxiously.

  “Karigan?” Connly asked quietly
.

  “Enver says she’ll be fine.”

  Both of them looked relieved.

  “I don’t think my heart can take much more of all the trouble she gets into,” Estral said.

  Zachary understood the feeling well. He saw Destarion standing apart clutching his satchel and staring at the ground. He should have maintained control over the situation, but then again, Karigan was not the usual patient. Maybe Zachary could forgive him one day, but it wouldn’t be tonight.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, “please escort Destarion to the River Unit’s camp.”

  “Yes, sire,” Connly replied. He bowed and set off.

  Zachary was about to return to the fire to continue talking with Captain Treman and Fiori, but Estral touched his sleeve.

  “One moment, if you please,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  She spoke quietly so no one else would hear. “Your reaction just now to Karigan—it was very strong, and it was noted by the captain and Lieutenant Rennard.”

  “Yes, what of it?” he asked, sensing what she was going to say.

  She lowered her voice even more. “Rennard asked if Karigan was your . . .”

  “Mistress?”

  She nodded.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth—that she is not. I explained that you care deeply about all your people, those enslaved by Second Empire, as an example. I also said you worked closely with your messengers and that Captain Mapstone was your close friend.”

  “And what did he think of your explanation?”

  She shrugged. “We minstrels are pretty persuasive, and he seemed to accept it at face value, though he may come to his own conclusions.”

  “Thank you, Lady Estral.” She would, he thought, make a fine Golden Guardian one day.

  “I bring it up,” she said, “for Karigan’s sake. Rumors could prove damaging to her.”

  She left him then, and he mulled over her words. Many nobles kept mistresses—they were open secrets. Many kings before him had, as well. The idea of mistresses never reflected poorly on the man, but there was always a different standard for the woman, and yes, rumors could damage Karigan’s effectiveness as a Green Rider and make life very difficult for her. They would also hurt Estora. But it was true, Karigan—no matter how he felt about her—was most definitely not his mistress, and he had no wish for her to be regarded as such.

  The Weapons would maintain silence as was their wont, and which was expected of them by the oaths they took. Estral would not hurt her friend by spreading rumors, either. Lord Fiori, who must guess at his feelings, was a master of discretion. Of the Riders, he did not believe rumor would spread beyond their ranks. They had guarded Estora’s secret affair with F’ryan Coblebay well enough, after all. The soldiers of the River Unit? That was an entirely different situation.

  He must conduct himself with great care for his sake, Estora’s sake, and especially for Karigan’s sake. They were no longer on their own in the wilderness. The River Unit had arrived, and he had to be king again.

  GHOSTS

  She felt Nyssa trying to scratch at her mind even in the depths, pursuing her, trying to fill her with venom. Karigan tried to escape, but Nyssa surrounded her, closed in, suffocated her.

  “You cannot escape me, Greenie.”

  No, it seemed she could not.

  But even as Nyssa moved in, the clarion notes of a horn rang out through the darkness and roused Karigan. It was the Rider call, and she must answer. Nyssa hesitated, and Karigan took the opportunity to hurtle right past her and toward the sound, toward light. The light grew and grew until she was within it, and she found herself standing beneath a tree looking down into a valley. The silence was beautiful.

  “Indura Luin,” Siris Kiltyre said beside her, his hand resting on the twisted horn of the Green Riders that hung over his shoulder. “Or rather, what remains after Mornhavon the Black drained it.”

  Indura Luin was the name, in the old tongue, of a lake that once existed there, Mirror of the Moon, in the common. It had been of spiritual importance to the Sacor Clans, which was why Mornhavon had drained it. Now the valley was simply known as the Lost Lake.

  Karigan remembered the tree she was standing beneath. She and Alton had picnicked beneath it five years ago. It had turned into an eventful day, for Shawdell the Eletian had lain in wait on the opposite ridge to ambush the king as he and his party hunted in the valley.

  “We are holding the torturer at bay,” Siris said.

  We? A haze formed around them, and then resolved into the ghostly figures of Green Riders, some mounted on phantom steeds, others afoot, their uniforms and weaponry of ages past and present. It was apt, she thought, for on that day five years ago, ghosts had helped her and Alton fight off Shawdell.

  A few of the ghosts grew more solid in her vision than others—Joy Overway, Osric M’Grew, Yates Cardell, Ereal M’Farthon, and others she had known. F’ryan Coblebay stood more distant. She looked for one face in particular among the misty shifting mass, but could not find it.

  Siris seemed to know whom she sought. “The First Rider is still answering for her transgressions and is not allowed.”

  Transgressions she had committed on Karigan’s behalf.

  “You must fight the torturer with all your power,” Siris said. “You are the avatar of Westrion.”

  “She is everywhere.”

  “She is not here.”

  Not here, not here, not here . . . the ghosts murmured.

  “You were hurt,” Siris said, “and tormented, but there is no time to waste feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “Feeling sorry—?”

  “As I’ve told you before, listen to the half-Eletian, let him guide you so you may strengthen your mind and resolve yourself to be rid of the torturer.”

  “But—”

  “Rider, you are an avatar of Westrion. I have tried to impart wisdom that may aid you in that capacity. Always remember it is you who must command the ghosts, not the other way around. Remember that some will attempt to mislead you. Remember that the gods do not always have your best interests at heart, only their own.”

  He stepped forward, placed his hand on her shoulder. It was cold.

  “We will watch over you while you recover,” he said, “but after that, you are on your own.”

  The Rider ghosts closed around her, touched her hands, her shoulders, her back. Yates caressed her cheek and gave her a long, unfathomable gaze, and then they were gone. It was not so much that they vanished, but that she was absorbed into a dark, peaceful slumber.

  THE DAY HORSE

  Karigan accepted the cup of tea from Estral. She was still groggy and had a dull headache, but the long, deep sleep made her feel stronger. Estral told her she’d slept for two solid days. Nyssa was still there trying to scratch her way back in, but the blockade of Rider ghosts held strong.

  Had they actually been real? Those dreams with Siris Kiltyre? He had called her “avatar,” and there was something she had to do. Something to do with ghosts. The strange fragments of dream images made no sense.

  “You do look better.” Estral’s voice wasn’t hushed because she was trying to be quiet, but because the gift of Idris was fading. “More color in your cheeks. Feel up to eating some eggs?”

  “Eggs? Where did you get eggs?”

  “Connly brought them from the River Unit.”

  Karigan was already salivating. It was the supper hour and not breakfast, but she didn’t care. She was too weak to sit outside, so she waited in the tent, listening to the sound of Estral banging pots and pans around out by the fire. She did not know where Enver was, but Estral said the king, his Weapons, and Connly had gone to where the River Unit had established an intermediate encampment about halfway to the Green Cloak. The fewer who moved back and forth, she explained, the better chance they ha
d of remaining undetected by Second Empire, and the king wanted to meet with all the officers and survey the troops. So it was, once again, just the three of them. Karigan missed the king and wished he could be there beside her, but it was also a relief that the temptation of him was out of reach.

  When Estral returned with eggs and sausage and panbread, Karigan’s eyes went wide. “They gave us sausage, too?”

  Estral smiled and nodded.

  For the first time in a long while, Karigan was hungry and willing to eat. She ate as much as she could, but left a good portion untouched. Estral, however, looked pleased.

  “Enver was right,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “That you drinking so much of Destarion’s soporific might in fact help you. We were afraid you’d had too much, that . . . that you would not wake up.”

  Karigan remembered Nyssa’s nagging, but she had resisted, had just wanted to sleep. She then told Estral all about her torment.

  “She’s a ghost?” Estral asked.

  “I am not sure exactly. She appears to me like one, but she is also in my head.”

  She then explained what she remembered of her dream of Siris Kiltyre and the Riders.

  “If it was anyone other than you,” Estral said, “I would have a hard time believing it, but I know you’ve become accustomed to dealing with ghosts.”

  “I am not sure ‘accustomed’ is what I am, but I certainly seem to deal with them an awful lot.”

  “It is good to hear you able to talk about it.” Estral reached over and squeezed her hand. “We’ve all been very worried about you. The king, especially.”

  Karigan felt her cheeks warm. “I—I wish he wouldn’t.”

  “It is difficult for both of you, I know. The heart does not always obey the head. Which reminds me . . . The king asked me to give you something.” She produced a bracelet of braided horse hair made from Condor’s own tail.

  “He made this?” Karigan asked, running it through her fingers.