Zachary turned toward Laren, faced her, but gazed thoughtfully into the air somewhere over her head. Where did his thoughts travel? What did he see?
“Your Majesty?” She stepped forward.
Her voice roused him from some reverie. “Yes?”
She bowed. “I—I was wondering if I might have a moment to speak privately with you.” She almost hoped he’d refuse her.
“Of course, but let me get this off first.”
Vasper came forward and helped the king unbuckle and remove the breastplate, which he set on an armor tree next to other pieces that made up the full suit. On the walls, alongside tapestries depicting battles of old, hung the weaponry and shields that had belonged to past kings, some marred by hacking blades, others pristine pieces of parade armor, gleaming with the heraldry of the clans and the sigil of Sacoridia. Zachary excused Vasper as well as his Weapon, leaving the two of them alone together, the westering sun flowing through the window turning the steel in the room bronze. Laren hesitated, wishing for a way out, but she must not delay any longer.
“What is it, Laren? You look . . . bereft. What is wrong?”
It was not, she thought, so far from the truth. “Zachary,” she said very softly. “I . . . I thought you should know. The standard time has elapsed and . . .” She took a deep breath. “It is time to acknowledge that Karigan is not coming home.” He stared, his eyes boring into her. There was a smoldering quality to them that had not been there before. Before the arrow. Before the betrayal of some of his closest advisors. Before Karigan had gone missing. The dark gaze did not make her task any easier. “We have removed her from the active duty rolls, and I intend to notify her father myself, in person, since he has been such a good friend to His Majesty and the messenger service.” This, she knew, would be as difficult, if not more so, than facing the king. It had been bad enough telling Stevic G’ladheon she’d sent his daughter into Blackveil. “Zachary, it has been too long. She is not coming back.”
He turned away from her to face the window. “Her brooch has not returned.”
“That is true. When a Rider has passed, his brooch will always find its way home.” She clenched her fists. She knew it all too well. “But it does not indicate that she still lives. It may be that Blackveil is too great a barrier for even a Rider brooch to find its way home, or, as has happened historically, it will take years before it returns to us. I believe the record stands at about a hundred years in one instance.” She had to convince Zachary Karigan would not be coming back. She had accepted it herself, mostly. A small part of her held out hope, but it had diminished as the days rushed by and there was still no sign or word of Karigan.
She’d watched Condor closely, hoping the horse sensed something about his Rider with that special connection that messengers and their horses shared, but it was difficult. He appeared neither content nor disconsolate. He ate his feed, but dragged, heaving long, heavy sighs. Often he just stood in the pasture with head lowered, the picture of dejection. No, he wasn’t declining, precisely, but he wasn’t thriving either. She could not divine what went on in his horse brain. Each horse handled the passing of its Rider differently.
The time had come to end the limbo, to seek closure. It was time to declare Karigan dead.
“Your Riders will be holding a memorial circle for Karigan tonight should you and the queen wish to attend.”
He bowed his head. “I feared it, that this time would come. However, I do not wish to believe it. She has survived other dangerous missions. She has always returned.”
Laren did not think she needed to remind him that Karigan’s walking into Blackveil Forest had been her most perilous deed of all. And it appeared that, even in death, she had bought them more time against Mornhavon. Lynx said Karigan had wounded Mornhavon, and the forest had lain quiescent ever since.
Zachary strode to the window, placed his hands on the wide stone sill. The lowering sun washed across his face. The window looked out on the west castle grounds where the mounted units, including her Riders, liked to exercise their horses. A barely perceptible smile formed on his lips as he immersed himself in a pleasant memory. He looked so very tired to her, and she did not think it was just the pressures of his kingship.
“It seems I failed,” he said.
“Failed? What do you mean?”
He shook himself as if suddenly recalling her presence. As he gazed at her, she saw something of the young boy she’d once known, before he’d grown into a man and become a king, hardened by all its responsibilities.
“I’d made an oath,” he said. “To myself. To protect her. And I failed.”
Laren’s shoulders slumped. His quiet anguish was worse than any display of grief or outrage. When she’d learned of the dangerous mutual attraction between Karigan and Zachary, she’d tried to quell it for the sake of the realm. She’d sent Karigan away on errands, kept them separated, but to no avail. And now there was this. She would never have wished to keep them separate in this manner.
“She is . . . was . . . a Green Rider,” Laren replied. “If you exerted your will to protect her from all harm, she would not have been able to perform her duty, follow her calling. That surely would have killed her just as readily as her stepping into Blackveil.”
“I know it,” he said, gaze downcast. “But still, I could have—”
“Stop!” He looked at her, startled by her sharpness. Lost. “There is nothing you could have done. She was the best one to send into Blackveil. I knew it, and you knew it. Yes, I question myself all the time, and the doubts flood in, late at night, in the back of my mind, but I come back to the same conclusion each time. Whenever I assign a Rider to an errand, I wonder if they’ll return, and sometimes they don’t. But if I allow my desire to protect them to get in the way of the realm’s business, nothing would get done. The realm would not move forward. My Riders—your Riders—do their work willingly because they believe in their country and their monarch. Karigan believed no less than any other.”
She reached into the inner pocket of her shortcoat and pulled out an envelope with “King Zachary” written across it in Karigan’s exacting hand. She had considered not bringing it to him, thinking it would only deepen his feelings for Karigan even in her death, and she did not want it to come between him and his new queen. But, while Laren might act for the good of the realm, she was also human.
“We’ve been cleaning out Karigan’s room so I can take her belongings to her father.” Laren remembered the few books, a blue gown that had once been quite gorgeous but was now in rough shape; hair ribbons and combs, slippers, a few oddments of jewelry. It might have seemed strange that there were not many personal items in a Rider’s room, but the nature of the messenger service required that they often be on the road and rarely home long enough to accumulate possessions. As for Karigan’s cat, Ghost Kitty, he’d taken to sleeping with Mara, but could still be found hanging about Karigan’s room much of the time.
“As we packed,” Laren continued, “we discovered some letters. It appears she knew there was a good chance she was not coming home. She left one for her father, which I’ll be taking to him, and one for the Riders, which I’ll be reading at the memorial tonight. And, she left one for you.”
She strode over to him, by the window, took his hand in hers and squeezed it, then pressed Karigan’s letter into it. She excused herself with a bow, but she didn’t think he noticed her departure. A final glance revealed him gazing out the window, the letter unread in his hand.
• • •
They were difficult, these gatherings, but as captain, Laren must remain strong for her Riders. They’d had too many of these memorial circles in the past year. Her footsteps rang hollow in the empty corridor she walked to the records room. She always came ahead of the others to collect her thoughts, to steel herself for the simple ceremony. Afterward was soon enough to give in to emotion. Afterward, when she was alon
e in her quarters with no one to serve as witness. It made it harder that they hadn’t even a body, no idea of precisely what befell Karigan, but it also made this ceremony all the more imperative. It provided the solid ground of ritual and leavetaking, allowed the Riders to acknowledge her passing and to comprehend for themselves the finality of her absence. In this way they could move on.
It was ironic, Laren thought, that it was Karigan for whom they’d be performing the ceremony, since it was Karigan who had brought it back to the Riders of the present from the time of the First Rider. There was a circularity about it that seemed appropriate.
Laren had not hurried, but she arrived at the records room all too soon and now saw that she would not have the chamber to herself to gather her thoughts. The glassworkers—hired to do the special cleaning of the stained glass dome—were still there, clambering about the scaffolding. A fretful Dakrias Brown came to her side.
“I’m sorry, Captain, I told them they needed to be out by now.”
“They appear to be packing up,” she replied, observing them placing tools in bags. A couple were already descending the scaffolding.
The Weapons Fastion, Ellen, and Willis arrived. They would assist with the ceremony by lighting the stained glass dome from behind. Sadly, the view of the glass would be obstructed by the crisscrossed network of scaffolding high above.
Then to Laren’s surprise, more Weapons filed in, Weapons who guarded the king and queen. And still more she recognized from the tombs, led by Brienne Quinn. Arms Master Drent actually brought up the rear, dressed not in his training gear, but in the black of a Weapon.
Fastion, noting Laren’s wonder, said, “Rider G’ladheon was our sister-at-arms, an honorary Weapon. Any of us who were not required elsewhere would of course be here.”
The Weapons made a ring around the room, a dark honor guard.
The chief glassman ambled up to Laren and Dakrias, a bucket in one hand and a bag of tools in the other.
“A good evening to you, Captain,” he said, bushy side whiskers wavering in air currents.
“Master . . .” She fought to remember his name. Dakrias had said he was the finest glassman in Sacoridia. He’d come all the way from the eastern province of Bairdly to work on their dome. “Goodgrave!” she remembered in triumph. “Master Goodgrave. How fares your work?”
“Very fine, Captain, very fine. It is an honor to restore a masterwork such as this. We finished up the first panel this day—wanted to make sure we did so for your ceremony this evening. I think you will appreciate the difference between it and the as yet untouched panels when you light them up, I surely do. The beauty of it will properly honor your fallen comrade. Wish I could have finished the whole dome, but it’s exacting work and . . .” He faltered and looked troubled.
“And?” Laren prompted.
Master Goodgrave glanced this way and that, and then in a hushed voice said, “This place, it is haunted. Did you know?”
Both Dakrias and Laren nodded. Yes, they knew.
“My helpers, they keep running off, saying they are being pinched or their tools moved by unseen hands. I keep having to hire and train new ones, and it takes time. But my son-in-law, young Josston there, and I keep at it. We are not letting the, hmm, spirits chase us off.”
Laren glanced at the skinny young man he pointed out as his son-in-law. He was busy shifting a ladder.
“Don’t you worry,” Master Goodgrave said, “we will finish our work. No matter what little jokes those restless shades play on us.” He gazed up at the dome and glowered.
“Thank you,” Laren replied.
Just as the glassworkers left, Riders filed in and started to form a circle within the ring of Weapons. The circle had grown much larger since the first one they’d held. The influx of new Riders gladdened Laren, but she was also taken aback by how many of them never had the chance to meet Karigan. Among them, of course, were some of Karigan’s old friends: Mara, Tegan, Garth, and Ty. Laren’s own friend and former Chief Rider, Elgin, joined them and cast her a reassuring smile. They’d have told the new Riders of Karigan’s exploits. Missing from the group, most notably, were Alton and Dale, but they were needed at the wall. Lynx scouted the north woods helping to sniff out Second Empire, and Beryl, well, even Laren wasn’t sure where the king had sent Beryl.
Like a star aglow in the gloom, one other entered the records room flanked by an additional Weapon. Queen Estora arrived resplendent in dark blues, her crown shining atop her head. She came directly to Laren.
“Captain,” Estora said.
“Your Majesty.” Laren and Dakrias bowed. “Thank you for coming. It will—it will ease the hearts of your Riders to have you here.” They were after all, not just Zachary’s Riders, not anymore.
“It is a difficult reason to be here,” Estora replied.
Laren fleetingly thought of Estora’s complicated position, of coming between two who had loved one another.
Estora added, almost like an answer to Laren’s thoughts, “Karigan was my friend. I would be no other place at this hour. My husband, however, will not attend.”
“So he chose not to come,” Laren murmured in disappointment before she could stop herself.
“It was not a matter of choosing,” Estora replied. “He received unexpected visitors—Eletians.”
“Eletians? Should I go—?”
“Your duty, I think, lies here at this time, Captain, with your Riders. They are looking to you to lead them, to give them solace. I am sure my husband and his other advisors will be able to manage the Eletians until you are done here.”
His new advisors, Laren thought with concern. But Estora was right. Zachary could handle it and no matter the Rider lost, the business of the realm must go on.
Laren excused herself to take her place in the circle, sad but proud to see the Riders and Weapons, not to mention Queen Estora, all assembled here to remember Karigan. Her mind strayed to the news of the Eletians’ presence in the castle—what could they want?—but when she cleared her throat, and all the Riders turned their solemn attention to her, she forgot about the Eletians.
She began by welcoming those who had come and by enumerating Karigan’s deeds. She made sure they heard about her quieter accomplishments—the expert keeping of Rider accounts and the many successful messages she had delivered—in addition to the more notable and dangerous missions she had undertaken. Laren told of how Karigan became a Green Rider in the first place by completing the errand of a fallen Rider, F’ryan Coblebay, and subsequently helping to protect the king’s throne from his brother’s coup attempt. Karigan had carried the spirit of Mornhavon the Black into the future, securing time for Sacoridia to prepare for his eventual return. She had done so with the aid of the First Rider—the First Rider!—whose brooch she had worn.
Laren did not stint in the telling of how Karigan had helped rescue Sacoridia’s then future queen from kidnappers, a deed for which the king awarded her knighthood, the first Sacoridian to be so dubbed in two hundred years. Laren spoke of how Karigan had gone bravely into Blackveil Forest and aided the Eletian “Sleepers” who had been left behind in Argenthyne during the Long War. Once again she had defied the will of Mornhavon the Black and wounded him. Lynx had been unable to tell Laren more than that, for what had become of Karigan was a mystery even to him, and he had been there.
It was all the stuff of legends, and by Laren reiterating Karigan’s record here, the Riders would carry those stories on to the next generation of Riders, and out into the greater world, and in that way Karigan’s memory would live on.
Laren was about to say as much when from somewhere within the depths of the records room a loud thud made several of the Riders jump and look around uneasily. On the periphery of her vision, Laren saw Dakrias chewing on his nails as he glanced behind in the direction of the noise.
What in the name of the gods was that? It soun
ded like someone slamming a book on the floor. Laren stood there momentarily at a loss. She’d forgotten what she meant to say next. She patted her shortcoat, pulled out Karigan’s letter, and cleared her throat. “Uh, Karigan left a letter for the Green Riders. She knew the risk she would be taking when it came to entering Blackveil. She knew she might not return.” She broke the seal—she had not read the letter herself, feeling that they should all hear its contents at the same time.
“My dear friends,” she began. Karigan’s handwriting had always been neat and well-practiced, the result of keeping records and ledgers in meticulous order, and this letter was no exception. “If you are reading this, it means I have died in Blackveil.”
Thunder boomed somewhere behind Laren, somewhere beyond the nearest shelves, making everyone jump again. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling about ready to leap out of her skin. It hadn’t really been thunder, no, but maybe a whole armload of books hitting the floor with resounding force. When she opened her eyes again, she saw two Weapons peeling away to investigate. A murmur arose from the Riders.
“Don’t be troubled,” Dakrias said, raising his hands, palms outward. “It’s, uh, just the resident spirits making their presence known.” There was an aggrieved edge to his voice. It was he and his clerks, after all, who would have to clean up after the mischief.
Laren waited for silence to be restored before she started reading again. “Most of you know it was never my intention to be a Rider—I had other plans, to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a merchant, but the call rang true. I have not regretted a moment of—”
BAM!
This time, something excessively heavy had fallen. Dakrias put his hand to his head and muttered to himself before dashing off to investigate among the shelves.
The Riders shifted uneasily. Rattled, Laren searched the letter to find where she had left off. “I have not regretted a moment,” she read, “of my service to the king and Sacoridia. It has especially been an honor to serve so fine a captain, and among such courageous and dedicated people.”
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