“You were the most out of place, out of your element.”
That was the truth, she thought.
“We are also well acquainted with the way you move.”
“Oh,” she replied, taken aback.
“We would not have permitted you on the balcony with the king if we didn’t recognize you,” Fastion added.
“What? You—” But Fastion turned down another corridor, going his own way without another word.
Why would they have allowed even her? No, she did not want to think about it. Weapons had their ways and reasons, and she was an honorary member of their corps. That had to be it, nothing more.
She struck off for the Rider wing.
“Why’s she so glum?” The chair creaked beneath Garth’s weight as he sat down. “She looks like she lost her best stallion—er—friend.”
Why, Karigan wondered, did it seem everyone but her had seen the play Mad Queen Oddacious? Currently she sat in the common room of the Rider wing, still in costume, although the mask, fan, and crowned wig were on the table in front of her. Garth, wet and muddy from the road, had only just arrived from his latest errand. Yates and Tegan had just heard her rather spare account of the masquerade ball. She’d left out certain details, like her visions in the mask and her encounter with Lord Amberhill. Maybe she’d tell Mara later if they had a moment alone.
“She didn’t lose her best friend,” Yates said. “She’s just mad that this time she wasn’t the one who got to save the king.”
Karigan rolled her eyes.
“Save the king?” Garth demanded. “Something happen while I was gone? Is that why the guards harassed and challenged me all the way across castle grounds?”
Karigan was obliged to recite, once again, her account of the assassination attempt.
“Huh,” Garth said. “A king is apt to make enemies. Those D’Ivarys were a bad bunch, abusing people the way they did.”
“Those D’Ivarys,” Tegan emphasized. “The current lord-governor is not of that ilk. Anyway the Weapons kept the king safe, which is their job, and his reign goes on.”
Karigan wished she could be that calm about it. She knew the attack had been clumsy and the assassin didn’t have a chance with all those Weapons to protect the king, but what if circumstances had been different?
And Garth was right—a king was apt to make enemies. There would be other attempts on the king’s life and there was not a single thing she could do about it. If it came down to it, she would not hesitate to give her life for his, and not just because he was her sovereign and what it would mean for the country.
I am hopeless, she thought.
“Queen Oddacious looks ready to retire for the night,” Yates said.
Karigan yawned and stood. “She already has.”
She left the common room for her own chamber. On her bed she found Ghost Kitty waiting for her, belly up and purring. It was with much relief that minutes later she was in her nightclothes and joined him.
That was an eventful end to the evening, Amberhill thought as he stepped outside of the castle’s main entrance.
The assassin hadn’t even gotten close to Zachary before the Weapons were on him like a cloud of wasps. He’d seen the young man earlier and wondered about his nervousness. Now he knew.
Several carriages were picking up ladies and gentlemen as they filed out of the castle and down the stairs to the drive. The usual complement of guards at the door was doubled, and they were not permitting anyone back inside.
Amberhill shrugged and espying his own carriage pulling up, set off down the stairs, finally removing his mask when he reached the bottom. The carriage door swung open and inside Yap awaited him, looking bleary-eyed, as though he’d had a good long nap.
“Ready to go home, sir?”
Amberhill stepped up into the carriage and sat across from Yap. “It will be home no longer,” he said. His ring had been quiet during the ball, but now he felt it pulling on him.
“Sir?”
“The ocean, Mister Yap. That is where we are bound.”
Yap grinned. “Aye, sir!”
DARK ANGEL
Grandmother pulled her cloak about her shoulders, almost too weak to manage even that much by herself. Immediately Lala was by her side helping her.
“Good child,” Grandmother said, patting the girl’s hand. “Good, good child.”
They were still in the cave, the dreary cursed cave, for Grandmother had been too ill to travel, too feeble to even move. Some days ago a welt had formed on her hand—a spider bite, she suspected—and excruciating body aches and fever followed. She dimly remembered directing Min to lance the welt and make a poultice with herbs from her pack to extract the poison. Evil dreams paraded through her mind, of being entwined in her own yarn, of it burning, burning, burning into her flesh, and of dark creatures feeding on her while she screamed; images of gore and horror that made her shiver still.
Then one day, thanks to the ministrations of her faithful people, she awoke. She simply awoke weak, hungry, and parched. So they lingered in the relative safety of the cave while she recuperated, she cursing her frailty and every moment they lost in their quest to rouse the Sleepers. If only she could stir herself to full strength.
Instead she was a feeble old woman with skin sagging from bones, unable to even place her cloak on her own shoulders.
Deglin maintained the fire just to keep her warm. He’d dared venture outside to collect more wood. He didn’t go far, didn’t go beyond her wards, which, thank God, did not fail while she was sick.
“Somethin’ out there,” he muttered to her once. “Keepin’ an eye on us.”
Yes, there were Watchers. She would deal with them when need be, but at the moment she was more interested in what she could watch. She wanted to look into the fire—perhaps God would speak to her again, provide guidance.
“Lala, child,” she said, “fetch my yarn.”
Lala scampered away and was back in seconds with the yarn basket. Grandmother picked through the balls of yarn with shaky hands. This would not do.
“Child,” she said. “You will have to help me tie knots. I’m not yet steady.” She did not like to think what kind of disaster a mistake could cause, with the etherea of this place so unstable.
Lala had learned well from watching all the time and playing her string games. Her nimble little fingers flew with each knot Grandmother named. Sometimes she’d have to prompt Lala to the form when the girl paused, her young face perplexed. “Remember the knot where the bunny goes into the hole?” Lala would then solemnly nod and finish the knot.
When Lala tied the last one, Grandmother took the snarl of red yarn and inspected it closely. Yes, her clever, dear grandchild had done very well. But now, she wondered, would it work for her since she had not done the actual tying herself? She’d tried to project her intent into the knots as Lala worked, but she wasn’t sure it was enough. So she yanked some of her wiry gray hairs from her head and wove them into the snarl best as she could, impressing her intent upon it. Then she tossed it into the fire and stared and prayed.
She must have stared for a long time for she dozed off. Her awareness of her people fell away and the world turned gray, yet she was still aware of the crackle of fire. Shapeless dreams, lacking the violence of her fever dreams, came and went like dancers waltzing across a ballroom floor.
A face intruded on her dreams, formed just beyond the flames. It was a masked face. Grandmother jolted fully awake and found the face wasn’t a dream at all.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
Behind the mask, haunting eyes stared back at her. Just stared. What did it mean? Who would come to her in such a form?
“Who are you?” Sweat dripped down Grandmother’s temple. The jovial red sequins and feathers of the mask mocked her.
The entity did not answer; it just stared.
In a more pleading tone, Grandmother asked, “What are you?”
The flames flared and the mask was replaced by a visored an
d winged helm of steel so bright it almost hurt to look upon it. Live symbols swarmed and wiggled across the steel, symbols the like of which she had never seen before and therefore could not interpret.
The vision pulled back revealing the armored figure mounted on a great black horse. She knew the stallion—he was the steed of the god of death the heathen Sacoridians worshipped. Black as the charcoal of her fire he was, demon spawn. He pranced and snorted, his rider armed with a lance and shield. This was not, she thought, the death god who rode the stallion, but some lesser avatar. Even so, Grandmother felt the threat of the pair, felt the hairs stand on the back of her neck.
Then the vision was gone. The fire was a normal fire, and she discerned her followers moving about the cave and chatting. The cold returned to her bones. Lala tentatively touched her arm.
“Yes,” Grandmother said, her voice trembling. “I saw something. Something evil.” The masked entity, who was also the demon steed’s rider, was a deceiver. A spy. “An enemy sent up from hell to defeat us in God’s work. A Dark Angel.”
ADVICE AND BLESSINGS
The day after the masquerade, Tegan took it upon herself to return the costume of Mad Queen Oddacious to Leadora Theadles at the Magnificent. Karigan was glad to see the thing go.
On this, the eve of their departure for the wall, and thence Blackveil, the members of the expedition were given the day to use as they would to make final preparations, perhaps visit with family or spend time in prayer at the chapel of the moon.
For Karigan’s part, she checked and rechecked her gear, and having no family in the city to visit or any inclination to pray, she spent time with Condor grooming him, working out tangles in his mane and tail. When she finished, she stroked his nose and whispered nonsense to him, and treated him to a handful of oats.
“Well, he’s looking fine.”
Karigan turned to find Elgin Foxsmith leaning on the stall door. “A little bit rangy though,” she replied. “He’s shedding quite a bit.” She toed a clump of chestnut hair around the bedding of the stall.
“True enough. Killdeer is, too. Enough to stuff a mattress.” He chuckled. “So how are you feeling about your journey?”
Karigan paused her stroking of Condor until he nudged her shoulder for more. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “Ready to go, I guess.”
“That all?”
“Anxious. I’ve been kept too busy to think about it, really.”
Elgin nodded. “Probably a good thing.”
And probably on purpose. It would not do any good, Karigan reflected, if the members of the expedition had too much time to worry and froze up with fear.
“You’ll do just fine,” Elgin said. “You know what you’re getting into. That bugger, Yates, though, I’m not so sure. Maybe his practical jokes will scare off any of Blackveil’s nasties.”
“Uh oh,” Karigan said. “Did he ... ?”
“Short sheet my bed? Oh, yes, the rascal, and not only that. He mixed pepper in with my jar of tea leaves.” He scowled.
“Oh, dear,” Karigan said.
“Claims he does it to all the new Riders. The short sheeting, anyway.”
“But you’re not—”
“New? I’m not even a Rider at that. No, not for many a year.”
Elgin had become enough of a presence around the Rider wing that Karigan forgot he possessed no brooch. He had not returned to Sacor City to answer the Rider call, but had come at Captain Mapstone’s request for help.
“You’ll keep an eye out for Yates, then?” Elgin asked.
“I’ll do my best.”
Elgin nodded. “Almost wish I was going, especially if it would spare one of you young Riders, but it’s not my lot.”
There was that great sadness behind his words, and Karigan wondered again what had transpired during the veteran’s time as a Rider to make it so. Before she could question him, however, several of the new Riders led in horses from the day’s riding lesson. Condor whickered a greeting to the newcomers, rousing other horses to neighing and carrying on. Elgin’s donkey, Bucket, kicked the wall of his stall.
Elgin watched the young Riders with a keen look in his eye. “You are going into the heart of a nightmare,” he said. “You, Yates, and Lynx. You’ve got to trust one another. Can’t speak for the others going with you, but Riders are different. It is how we are, and it’s what I’m trying to instill in these young ones.” He paused, then gazed directly at Karigan. “It is in my experience that most folks don’t have your best interests in mind, even if they’re on the same side. But with Riders? That’s different. You remember that.”
“Yes, I will.”
“Good. Now I must see these youngsters to their geography lessons.”
Abruptly Elgin left her, crossing the stable floor with his limping stride. He began to chivvy the Riders to move smart or they’d be late. Karigan pressed her cheek against Condor’s warm, smooth neck.
It was true, she thought. She could trust any of her fellow Riders with her life. Elgin was also right about those outside the messenger service not having her best interests in mind. Spending time at the castle and among its courtiers, she knew there were some who would smile at you one moment and slit your throat the next if they thought it would bring them some advantage. It appeared to be a game among many courtiers, one in which there was little regard for how the lives and reputations of others might suffer.
She shrugged, thinking that once she was in Blackveil the intrigues of the court would be the least of her worries.
As Elgin ushered the last of his charges out of the stables, Yates sauntered in. When he spotted Karigan, he headed right for her.
“Aren’t you the somber one,” he said.
“Somber?”
“My wee wittle Karwigan so sad wooking.” He curled his bottom lip down and made a sorrowful face.
Karigan sighed. “I just had a conversation with Elgin.”
“Oh, that’ll do it.”
“Be nice! He was telling me to look after you, if you must know.”
“Hah! He told me the same about you.”
Karigan wasn’t surprised. Lynx had probably gotten a talking to, as well.
“I’m pretty sure,” she said, “he’s afraid you’re going to put pinecones or something in the bedding of the Eletians.”
“Now there’s a thought,” Yates murmured. Karigan could almost see the gears and shifts of his mind in motion. She wouldn’t put it past him to try something so absurd.
“But for now,” he said, “I’m sick of all the doom and gloom. If Dale were here, she’d organize a party. Hey! That’s not a bad idea!”
By evening it was clear Yates’ idea had taken hold, for all the Riders in residence, including Captain Mapstone, attended what amounted to a barn party. He’d weaseled food from the cooks in the castle kitchen and sent Fergal and Garth to the Cock and Hen for a keg of ale. It turned out that a couple of the new Riders were not half bad on fiddle and pipe, so the center of the stable turned into a dance floor.
Even Karigan joined in, stomping her feet as she whirled from hand to hand in a country dance as old as the land. The dancing was not fancy, nor were the kitchen’s leftovers or the ale, but this party exceeded the masquerade ball by miles. It was good honest fun with people who were her friends. There was no deception here; no one wore masks.
The horses did not appear to mind the intrusion of all their Riders in their normally sedate environs, and in fact they watched the proceedings with ears alert, some bobbing their heads and whinnying.
After one last vigorous dance, Karigan breathlessly sank into a quiet corner with the dregs of her cup of ale and watched as her friends shifted into another breakneck reel. Tegan and Garth tore up the floor with the speed of their footwork. Yates showed off by doing a backflip off a bale of hay before heading back to the keg for more ale. He would not, she thought, be very happy to get in the saddle early tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile, Fergal coaxed shy Merla into dancing wi
th him. Others stood around the edges clapping to the beat or trying to carry on hollered conversations. In an opposite corner, Captain Mapstone stood with Elgin, laughing at some joke. Karigan could not remember the last time she had seen such joy among her friends.
She smiled. She might not bear blood kinship to any of them, but they were family nonetheless. Her family. They mourned together and they celebrated together, and as Elgin had said earlier, she could rely on them for anything.
But now she thought it time she went to bed. She didn’t want to start her journey unrested. And she wanted to avoid good-byes. So she slipped out of the stable into the cold, dark night, her smile fading. She glanced over her shoulder as she strode away, watching her friends through the doorway dancing and drinking in the glow of lantern light. She thrust her hands into her pockets and quickened her pace, turning her back on it all. Soon the music and laughter faded behind her, and she wondered if she would ever see any of them again.
On the eve of the company’s departure for Blackveil, Richmont Spane stood with Gillard Ardmont, whom he’d hand-picked for the expedition, just outside the suite of rooms belonging to Lord and Lady Coutre and their daughters. The forester, in his buckskin and with his weathered features, looked out of place in the refined surroundings of the aristocratic wing.
“You are a good man, Ard,” Richmont said, placing his hand on the forester’s thick shoulder.
Ard had been one among many servants of Clan Coutre that had accompanied Lord and Lady Coutre to Sacor City following the signing of the marriage contract with King Zachary. Lord Coutre’s party had chosen the overland route from Coutre Province, which had required the services of the forester.
Richmont had helped Ard’s family in the past, and in return, Ard was extremely grateful and loyal to the clan, and particularly devoted to Estora. Richmont had gotten Lord Coutre to convince King Zachary and his advisors that Ard should join the mission to represent the interests of the future queen. He’d met little resistance. It meant they did not have to choose another of their own, and Ard’s forestry skills would be a welcome asset to the company.
Blackveil: Book Four of Green Rider Page 28
