Firebrand

  “Yes,” she said quietly, “but one day it will leave me, as it is borrowed. I don’t know if I can face being silenced again.”

  “You’ll get your own voice back,” Karigan told her. “We’ll find the thief and get it back.”

  Estral smiled wanly. “Thank you for your confidence. You seem to have it when mine fails.”

  Karigan thought that was what friendship was about.

  They retired to their tent for the night, the cat choosing to sleep on Estral’s face. She lifted him off, spitting out orange hair, and placed him between her and Karigan.

  “I think he needs a name,” Estral said. “Something other than ‘Cat.’”

  Karigan yawned, pulling her blankets to her chin. “Let me know when you come up with one.”

  The cat was actually an asset in their small tent, giving off more heat than one would think a creature of his size capable. He was better than a hot warming stone, and softer. The vibration of his resonant purrs was like a massage to the small of her back.

  • • •

  The dome of dryness and warmth Enver had placed around their camp had been so effective that it was a shock when Karigan crawled out of her tent and discovered the world outside the dome was coated in ice. Morning light shone golden across the glazed landscape. Ice sheathed the branches of trees and shrubs, which chimed in the breeze. An enchanted fairy world it looked. It was also perceptibly colder, and Karigan wrapped her arms about herself.

  Enver stood looking outward. “Winter still has some strength in it.” His breath fogged the air. “I do not think we should remove ourselves from this place until perhaps tomorrow.”

  Karigan mourned the waystation anew. So they were going to be delayed after all, but at least at the waystation they would have had four walls, a roof, and a fireplace. Enver’s shielding spell was nice, but it did not have the solidity of log walls. He was right, though, that they should stay put. The slippery and sharp ice would be treacherous to the horses. Overhanging limbs could crash down on them beneath all that weight.

  “It looks like a realm for the aureas slee,” Karigan said.

  She had meant it lightly, but Enver’s response was serious. “I do not think the aureas slee was behind this. It feels . . . unmanipulated.”

  Unmanipulated. The idea that some elemental could purposely create such a scene? She did not want to think about it. Instead, she set to building a fire, grateful she’d collected wood the night before. It was relatively dry, and soon she had smoky flames crackling.

  Estral and the cat emerged from the tent, both stretching and yawning. The cat then trotted over to the fire. When Estral’s eyes popped open, she gazed in wonder at their surroundings.

  It had been a sound decision not to continue the journey. Even as they sat by the fire, all around them trees creaked and the snap and crash of ice-laden branches reverberated through the otherwise still forest. The cat meowed in protest and hid his head beneath the tails of Estral’s coat, and the horses snorted in alarm, except for Mist who nuzzled the others in an attempt to calm them.

  Karigan thought she could use some calming herself. This was not her first ice storm, but every time a limb crashed in the woods and ice shattered on the ground like a thousand glass bottles, her frayed nerves caused her to jump and her heart to pound. Perspiration broke out on her forehead. The noise bared memories from across layers of time, of a chamber of ice, a horse screaming . . .

  Bam! Another stout limb snapped and she wanted to scream. A vision rushed into her mind of a metal device in a man’s hand, its explosive report and the smoke it emitted, Raven going down in the throne room of the emperor. She cried out.

  “Karigan, are you all right?” Estral said.

  She covered her ears as another ice-laden branch smashed to the ground. Estral put her hand on her shoulder. Karigan bent over with a gasp. “Raven, Raven, Raven . . . ” she murmured, her cheeks moist and vision blurred. There was muffled conversation between Estral and Enver, and then, she did not know how much later, Enver took her hand from her ear and pressed into it a mug of a hot, herby-scented tea, with a hint of tangy spice.

  “This will make it easier for you,” he said.

  She eyed him suspiciously, but when another tree cracked and fell and she almost dropped the mug, she took a sip. It did relax her, but her heart still thudded with every fallen branch.

  “The noise reminds you of something in the future time?” Estral asked her.

  Karigan shuddered and nodded, but would say no more.

  As the day wore on and the explosive noises in the woods became less frequent, Karigan was further calmed, and entertained, by Estral teaching Enver drinking songs. She wondered what his people would make of it when he brought those songs back to Eletia. It was dusk when she noticed the horses growing nervous, and it was not from snapping branches this time, for the forest had quieted. Mist gave a shrill whinny, and the cat stood with his ears back and fur on end. His growl was so menacing that Karigan had to take a second look to make sure he had not turned into a catamount.

  Enver stood fluidly. “Predators.” He reached for his bow.

  “Groundmites?” Estral asked, barely above a whisper.

  “No. Wolves.”

  As if to confirm his words, howls filled the woods. If winter had been hard on groundmites, Karigan thought, it certainly had been hard on other creatures, as well. Wolves would not ordinarily attack people at a campsite, but if they were as desperate as the groundmites had been? She reached for her longsword and handed her saber to Estral, who accepted it without comment.

  The howls came again, chillingly closer. Karigan saw movement in the nearby brush.

  “They desire the horses,” Enver said.

  Just then, a gray-brindle wolf darted toward the horses. Mist, who was not hobbled, turned on her haunches and thrust her front hooves at it. Even as Enver nocked an arrow to his bowstring, and even as Karigan set foot toward the horses, sword in hand, the cat, still growling and snarling, pelted by her and leaped. He looked bigger in his fury, and then she realized he was bigger and growing as he flew through the air, and so shocked was she that she halted in her tracks as their sweet orange tabby cat morphed into a large cat-monster-thing with wings.

  He went after the wolves snarling, leaping, flying, lunging. The wolves yipped as they ran off.

  “We will not be seeing them again,” Enver said in satisfaction, his bowstring now slack.

  “What in the name of the gods?” Karigan said, still trying to work out what had become of their little tabby.

  The cat-monster-thing padded back to camp. He paused by the horses, who were not afraid of him, and rubbed his face against Bane’s neck and flank. Then he approached them, ruffled his eagle wings, and sat in front of them.

  “Mister Whiskers?” Estral asked.

  “Meep,” came the little voice.

  “What . . . ?” Karigan could barely squeak the word out.

  “A gryphon, Galadheon,” Enver said, “the likes of which have not been seen in a millennium.”

  Karigan, who had seen so much in her life that was strange and wondrous, found that she kind of wanted to faint.

  Estral walked right up to the creature and started scratching him under his chin.

  “Estral!” Karigan said in alarm.

  “It’s Mister Whiskers, the gryphon that Alton released from Tower of the Heavens. Who’s a good kitty now?”

  “Good gods,” Karigan murmured, watching her friend pet and speak baby talk to the monster. “I have seen everything now.”

  “Everything?” Enver asked. “There is much in this world to see.”

  Mister Whiskers preened with the attention, then spread his wings. Estral retreated several paces to give him room. He flapped his wings with great downbeats creating a wind that rippled their tents and sent debris flying. He recoiled
on his hind end, then launched into the air, circling a few times overhead, then flew off in a northwesterly direction. It was an unusual sight to see the giant cat-thing airborne.

  “I guess he is off to seek a mate,” Estral said.

  Karigan wished him well, but wondered what the world would be like if gryphons once again ruled the sky.

  THE STRANGE BEHAVIOR OF ZACHARY

  Laren saw little of Zachary, and only at a distance, as he conducted the dance that was the ceremonial welcoming of a royal prince of Rhovanny. Tuandre was the seventh son of seven sons, and therefore the least of King Thergood’s progeny, which in itself revealed that Thergood was little interested in Sacoridia’s problem with Second Empire, and was not taking the threat of Mornhavon the Black very seriously. Most of these issues were occurring within Sacoridia’s borders, after all, and not Rhovanny. Still, if Thergood hadn’t some interest, he would have sent some lesser envoy than one of his own sons.

  So, there was the formal welcome, the public greeting, the shared chalice of wine representing the blood between cousins, for they were related. Rhovanny had had many blood ties with Sacoridian royalty over the generations. If Thergood had had a daughter, she would have been a strong contender to become Zachary’s wife.

  There were feasting and other stuffy formalities that accompanied a royal visit. The king and the prince would get down to business soon enough, and Zachary would have to convince Tuandre of the seriousness of the threat from their ancient enemy. Laren’s presence was not required for the ceremonial aspects of the visit, but she was certain Zachary would summon her when formal talks began.

  In the meantime, she had not been able to see Zachary on a more informal basis as Estora had wished, and as she strode through the chill air across castle grounds, she was not sure when she’d get the opportunity. Zachary was, of course, tied up with the prince’s visit, and when he was not with the prince, he was with Estora.

  Laren, in turn, was kept busy overseeing her Riders being sent out to convey messages and invitations to nobles and others of importance for functions involving the prince. She did take a moment one afternoon to visit Loon and Bluebird, though she did not ride. Vanlynn had heard about how she’d ridden Loon after having been patched up, and gave her a stern upbraiding. She was ordered not to ride until she was declared fit. When it came to injuries and sickness, the master mender outranked generals, much less mere captains.

  Bluebird gently nuzzled her shoulder as if he knew exactly how it had been hurt, while Loon continued to look rather abashed. They had had words, of course, but now she stroked the spotted horse’s nose.

  “I don’t hold a grudge,” she told him, “and you are still young. You’ll learn.”

  His ears seemed to relax at her words.

  “Ah, Captain, good to see you about and visiting your boys.”

  Laren turned to find Horse Master Riggs approaching. She was a compact woman of middling years and came from a family of hostlers from Hillander Province. Her father had served Zachary’s family estate, as her brother did now, and she came to Sacor City to train both horses and riders. Laren had seen her handle the most high-strung of stallions and the shyest of foals with a sure and kind hand, and she had a knack for teaching riders of all abilities. Laren was glad that Riggs was there to oversee the training of Green Riders and their horses.

  “You’re right about Loon,” Riggs said. “He’ll learn. How’s the shoulder?”

  “Not bad.” She’d been following Vanlynn’s instructions exactly, and Ben had given her tiny bits of his true healing touch to encourage her shoulder to mend, but it was a secret between the two of them, for after the assassination attempt on Zachary last spring, Vanlynn decreed that Ben’s ability was to be reserved for dire need only. His ability had its limits and was not to be exhausted on illnesses and injuries that would mend fine on their own. Laren agreed, especially with the queen expecting, but her shoulder had become a hindrance in accomplishing her duties, and Ben had wanted to help. He said that he could make her shoulder less likely to dislocate again. Who was she to argue?

  “Glad to hear it.” Riggs rubbed her elbow as if remembering an old injury of her own. “I’m waiting for your young lady to appear for her lesson.”

  “My young lady?” Laren stared blankly at her.

  “Anna? One of the queen’s servants?”

  “Of course. It’s been arranged then?”

  “Yes, through Mistress Evans. Going to put the girl on Mallard.”

  Mallard was an unclaimed Rider horse with an easygoing disposition, more likely to nap in the sun than run away with a novice rider. Laren couldn’t think of a better mount for Anna’s first lesson.

  “Ah, this must be her now,” Riggs said.

  The girl stood uncertainly at the far end of the building.

  “Hello, Anna,” Laren said, hoping to put her at ease. “Come meet Horse Master Riggs.”

  After introductions, Riggs looked Anna over with a critical, but not unkind, eye.

  “We won’t be doing side saddle.”

  Anna was wearing a skirt.

  “Have you no trousers?” Riggs asked. “Boots?”

  Anna shook her head.

  “Mistress Evans won’t thank me if your livery is soiled.”

  “Hmm,” Laren said. “I could probably track down something secondhand that one of my Riders can’t use anymore.” Rider uniform parts did begin to look shabby after a while and had to be put out of service, even if they weren’t worn out, because the king’s messengers must look polished.

  Riggs nodded. “Good. Then we’ll just begin with the basics of getting to know a horse.”

  Laren patted Loon and Bluebird one last time and nodded farewell as Riggs led Anna down the aisle toward Mallard’s stall. Laren did not want to be a distraction—the girl already looked nervous enough. Undoubtedly, she would be introduced to the horse, get to pet and brush him, and learn to put a halter on him and lead him around. It would be a good, gentle start. Laren, meanwhile, would find Mara and ask her to track down some likely pairs of trousers and boots.

  • • •

  Later that day, Laren was going over Rider accounts with Daro in officers quarters when a Green Foot runner came to her door with a message.

  “From Counselor Tallman, ma’am.”

  Laren thanked the boy and unfolded the paper awkwardly with her good hand. According to Les, there was a meeting transpiring with Prince Tuandre on substantive issues, and that perhaps she would like to be present. Why hadn’t Zachary summoned her? This was most unusual.

  Her dismay must have been plain for Daro asked, “What is it, Captain?”

  “A meeting underway without me. Would you help me with my dress longcoat and sash?” The visit of a dignitary like Prince Tuandre required her formal uniform, and with Daro’s help, she was properly attired, though the coat had to be draped over her bad shoulder. There was nothing else for it, though, and she set off for the castle.

  When she reached the meeting room, Willis opened the door so she could slip in. Zachary sat slumped in a small version of his throne chair at the head of the table, and the prince at the opposite end in a comfortable chair of his own. Along the sides sat advisors and courtiers of both Rhovanny and Sacoridia. Laren kept against the wall near Fastion, for there were no empty chairs, and she did not wish to disrupt the proceedings by requesting one, or even by moving to stand near Zachary. She tried to catch his eye, but his attention seemed concentrated inward, his attitude withdrawn.

  The meeting focused on issues of trade, and with Rhovanny as one of Sacoridia’s primary trade partners, it was certainly important. As the prince’s people negotiated with the king’s over tariffs, it brought to mind a customer and a merchant haggling on market day. Rhovanny’s most important export was wine, and the Rhovans were eager to find relief from taxes, just as Sacoridia’s merchants would likewi
se desire relief.

  Laren watched Zachary more than the negotiators. Normally he’d join in on such talks, but she did not think he was paying any attention whatsoever. Was he sick? He looked healthy enough. It was clear to her he did not wish to be present. To be fair, Prince Tuandre spoke little, but at least he made the occasional remark and seemed otherwise engaged. This must be quite the education for him, for he was but eighteen or nineteen. He’d a bevy of counselors with him, however, to speak for Rhovanny’s interests.

  When the session ended at the tolling of four hour, Laren sighed in relief. It was a long time standing and she ached all over. She stood aside as the assembled dispersed, with the intention of speaking with Zachary, but he left in haste and spoke to no one, not even Prince Tuandre. She couldn’t even ask Fastion if he had any idea what was going on with Zachary because he had to rush out of the chamber to keep up with the king.

  She found herself standing alone in the chamber, mystified. Zachary hadn’t even glanced her way when normally there would have been at least some acknowledgment of her existence. His excessive attention to Estora had been odd enough, though she’d taken to heart what Les Tallman had said about “nesting.” Even if Estora had not already asked her to look into it, she would have anyway based on the behavior that she had just witnessed.

  Laren decided there was no time like the present to go talk to Zachary and see for herself the cause of his behavior. By the time she reached his door, however, he was already closed away in his apartments, with Weapons on guard outside.

  “Fastion,” she said, “I’d like to see the king.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” he replied, “but he has ordered no disturbances. Perhaps if you made an appointment with his secretary?”

  Laren had never required an appointment to see Zachary before, though she had also never infringed on his desire for privacy.

  “I would like to see the queen, then.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain, but the king is with the queen.”