“My—my walking cane!” she cried.
The professor did not hand it over to her. “No, actually it’s my walking cane.” He pressed the trigger, shook the cane, and it extended into a staff.
“But—”
“Look closely,” he said. “It is the same as yours, and it is not.”
Karigan took it into her hands, feeling the familiar weight and the smooth black lacquer on the bonewood. But the professor was right—this one had acquired scars—scrapes and dints that hers never had. The handle was not leather-wrapped iron, but silver. Silver concealed its iron core. And there was a piece missing on the shaft. She ran her finger over the slight depression. Someone had painted it with lacquer, but it did not quite match the perfect midnight hue of the rest of the staff.
“The shield is missing,” Karigan said. It would have been a small, plain black shield representing the Order of the Black Shields, the Weapons.
“One of my predecessors decided he could not take a chance of the symbol being recognized,” the professor said, “so he carved it off. Alas, he did not save the piece. Not that I know of, at any rate.”
“So they made more than one.”
The professor nodded, seeming to know who “they” were. “I was quite astonished to see yours. I had assumed there’d been others, but I believed them destroyed or lost.”
Karigan returned the cane to the professor, wondering where and how his “predecessor” had found it, but before she could ask him, he set it back on its shelf and moved down the aisle for several strides, stopping when he came upon a work table situated between two shelving units. She hurried to catch up, and there she saw her uniform laid out on a length of linen with utmost care, no matter it was ragged and dirty and blood-splattered by her travails in Blackveil. Her winged horse brooch gleamed golden in the phosphorene glow and she reached out to caress it. It felt as it always had—oily smooth and cool. There were her muddy boots, too, and belt, and the white feather of the winter owl, and of course her own bonewood cane.
Her mother’s moonstone sat nested in crumpled purple velvet. She picked it up, but it still emitted only a feeble dying light.
“Is that really . . . ?” the professor began in awe. “Not just a legend?”
“If you are thinking it’s an Eletian moonstone, you’d be correct.” Karigan replaced it, hesitant to hold it too long as if her touch would use up its remaining magic. When the light winked out, the professor’s expression fell.
“So many things we have lost with the empire,” he murmured. “So many wonders.”
The professor had even kept the broken Eletian arrow shafts that had been used to splint Karigan’s broken wrist, and beside them, she was pleased to see, the mirror shards that had been removed from her flesh, still hazed with her blood. They were laid out on the velvet.
“I would like my belongings back,” she said.
“I have deemed it safer to keep these objects well out of sight,” the professor said. “I’m sorry, but I cannot permit them inside my home. I would not wish them to be found either by accident or by prying eyes.”
“What about this building? How safe is it?”
“It is watched, and if it’s breached, it’s quite easy to destroy the evidence, though the loss of these objects that are so priceless to me would be extreme, to say the least.”
Karigan’s eyebrows scrunched together, his reference to destruction not reassuring her. “I breached the building.”
The professor smiled enigmatically. “If that’s the way you’d like to think of it.”
Karigan scowled. So they had been expecting her. “I’d at least like my walking cane back—to support my bad leg.” She would take it even if he said no. Her hand twitched as she resisted the urge to just grab it.
“Bad leg, indeed. It’s done magnificently with all the stairs you used to get here. No, my dear, I understand completely the desire to have a weapon close to hand, but I can’t take the chance of anyone seeing that symbol on it, no matter how subtle.”
Karigan was about to argue, but the professor’s raised hand forestalled her. “I shall lend you mine. People have seen me use it now and again and won’t think twice at my niece’s having it, especially with her very delicate leg.”
“What about you? You won’t be able to use it.”
“Oh, I have several walking canes to choose from, my dear, and all of them quite as lethal, if not more so, than your own.” He winked and brushed past her, heading back down the aisle, presumably to retrieve his bonewood cane for her.
She turned to follow with one last glance at her belongings. Her reflection fell fractured and distorted on the mirror shards. One eye, part of her mouth, and the tip of her nose. The reflections rippled and changed, and instead of revealing parts of her own visage, she saw, like a kaleidoscope scene, a tiny image of Captain Mapstone walking in a rough stone corridor in each fragment, all featuring a different angle, a different distance. Karigan almost called out to the captain, who glanced over her shoulder.
“What’s this?” Professor Josston exclaimed, and Karigan started, darting her gaze at him down the aisle. He knelt, peering intently at the floor. “Tsk, tsk,” he said. “Mouse droppings. I shall need Cade to set more traps.”
Karigan exhaled a breath she had not known she was holding. A glance revealed the images of Captain Mapstone were gone, and the shards were back to reflecting her own face. Without hesitation she grabbed the largest mirror shard, which fit in the palm of her hand, and concealed it in her shawl.
The looking mask may have been shattered into hundreds of pieces, but even in this future where magic failed, something of its power remained.
In the present: Captain Mapstone
The flickering lamps along the rough stone walls of the corridor barely pushed back the dark that perpetually suffused this part of the castle. It was always noticeably cooler in these lower regions, as well. Laren Mapstone shivered, but not from the cold. These corridors she walked, on her way to the records room in the administrative wing, were among the oldest in the castle, and she often sensed she was not alone; the lateness of the hour only contributed to the feeling. She glanced over her shoulder as if someone’s gaze touched her. It was not the first time the sensation had come over her, and of course no one was there. She hastened her step.
The records room had a certain reputation for being haunted. In fact, in the past, ghosts had made the life of the recordskeeper, Dakrias Brown, miserable. The ghosts had constantly left the vast chamber in a state of disarray, forcing Dakrias to clean up and reorganize repeatedly. Apparently he and the ghosts had come to some accord over time, for now the records room remained as peaceful as any other part of the castle. Or mostly, anyway. It did not mean the ghosts had actually left.
Laren paused, still feeling that gaze on her. She whipped around, but as usual, no one, or no thing, was there. She broke out in a cold sweat. Yes, she’d encountered ghosts before, and perhaps stranger phenomena in her long career as a Green Rider, but experience didn’t make it easier for her. Dead spirits, she thought, ought to be dead and off to the heavens, not spying on and spooking the living.
The sensation of being watched vanished all at once, and she shook herself. Probably just her imagination living up to the reputation of these corridors. It was certainly easy enough down here, she mused, as she passed the gaping black maw of an abandoned corridor that branched off to her left.
Finally she entered the records room and breathed a sigh of relief to find Dakrias dictating to two of his clerks. A whole wing was devoted to administration, but when Dakrias was made chief of administration, he chose to remain in the records room rather than occupy his predecessor’s large and well-appointed office a couple of levels above. It was quieter down here, he said. Fewer people to pester him. He left the daily operations of administration to an able deputy, who loved the big office and the
authority, while Dakrias dealt with only the most pressing matters, and the records room, of course.
Laren was grateful he’d agreed to meet her so late at night, but it was the only time she had to spare. He’d said it was no trouble, that he often worked after hours. Apparently that meant his assistants did, too. Usually she found him poking through some old crate of documents or poring over old tomes. Whether they were an account of grain production from a hundred years ago, or a tally of how many loaves of bread the castle kitchen served per month, it all seemed to fascinate Dakrias. The records room contained all manner of the realm’s statistical arcana, from maps to financial accounts, and when a Rider ledger was filled up from front cover to back, it was sent here to be archived, along with any other paperwork that covered the administrative workings of the messenger service.
While Laren waited for Dakrias to conclude his dictation, she gazed toward the high ceiling. She couldn’t help but look all the way up, high beyond the uppermost shelves, seeking a glint of glass, but the ceiling was so high that light could not reach it. Had the original ceiling, a dome of stained glass, not been built over, in daylight she would have seen scenes from the Long War and the part the First Rider played in it.
“Ah, Captain,” Dakrias said, clapping his hands. “You’ve come to find out what we’ve discovered, eh?”
“The question is, did you find anything at all?”
“Come and see.” He led her to a table filled to capacity with books, sheaves of paper tied with ribbon, scrolls of faded parchment, and ledgers. The table appeared to bow beneath all the weight.
“All of this?” she asked incredulously. She had requested that Dakrias track down any records pertaining to Green Riders and warfare, including provisioning, tactics, special uses . . . any wisdom that her predecessors might have left behind that would aid her when it finally came to war with Second Empire. Historical records of the Riders were scarce, so the amount of documents burdening the table surprised her more than just a little.
Dakrias nodded and grinned. “There may be more. We’re still looking. But I’ll warn you that most of these contain but passing or oblique references to the Riders.”
She touched the brittle binding of one book. It was so old it looked apt to fall apart if she opened it.
“We even pulled files and accounts of actions against the Darrow Raiders,” Dakrias said, “though I know you were intimately acquainted with some of that.”
She noticed his gaze shift. He was looking at her neck scar, which he must assume she had acquired during battle with the Raiders, but the injury that had caused it had in fact occurred at a later time. When he realized what he was doing, he cleared his throat and looked away.
“Elgin might be interested in those,” she said. He’d been Chief Rider back then. Now in retirement, he’d returned to the castle to help train up new Riders.
Dakrias went through the piles explaining to her what was in which, as if the records were old friends of his. It was clear this was going to be more than a one-person task, sorting through what looked, to her, to be an overwhelming mess. She’d thought Dakrias might find a few items that she could go through in a spare moment, but she hadn’t time to deal with this treasure trove. She’d assign one or two of her more studious Riders to assist Elgin.
As Dakrias grew more enthusiastic about his finds, Laren found her attention drifting toward the ceiling again. After a while, she realized Dakrias had silenced and followed her gaze.
“Do you see something?” he whispered, as if he didn’t want ghosts to hear him.
“I don’t, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to go up above and take a look at the glass.”
“Don’t mind at all, and if you don’t object, I should like to accompany you to make sure my junior clerks are minding their duty.”
Laren had heard that Dakrias sent wayward clerks up to clear dust and cobwebs from the stained glass as punishment for their transgressions, meanwhile providing them with some educational insight into the darker times of Sacoridia’s history and how the realm had emerged victorious. It was something she wished to be reminded of, as well.
She welcomed Dakrias’ presence. Not that she feared the dark of the corridor and steep stairs that led to the dome, but, well, having a companion made it more palatable.
Dakrias located and lit a pair of lanterns, and as he led the way out of the records room, he asked, “Any word from, er, Blackveil?”
“No,” Laren replied. She tried to tell herself it was much too soon to hope for any news, but there was never a waking moment that some part of her brain didn’t worry about her Riders and the success of the expedition.
“You used to send Rider G’ladheon over here quite a lot,” Dakrias said. “I miss her. She understood about . . . well, you know.”
The ghosts.
They entered the low-ceilinged chamber that covered the dome of glass that rose from the floor like an iridescent bubble. Their lights rippled on color and movement, bringing to life battle and victory, the defeat of the enemy. Laren slowly walked around the dome, her lantern animating Riders on prancing steeds, brandishing their weapons at the cowering army. She could almost hear the snorts of horses and their pounding hooves, the cries of triumphant Riders and the ring of swords on scabbards. Leading them was Lil Ambrioth, the First Rider, founder of the Green Riders. She stood tall and commanding in her stirrups atop a fiery, red steed, the silk standard of the gold winged horse unfurled behind her. The enemy retreated before Lil, threw itself to the ground in front of her, or lay slain all around her and her Riders.
While the Riders and the background of the forest and mountains were vibrant, the enemy was depicted in drab grays, black, and crimson.
Laren worked her way past another scene in which Lil knelt before a moon priest with King Jonaeus looking on. There’d been some debate among the Riders about what this scene actually depicted. Was Lil receiving a blessing on behalf of the gods that she do well in battle, or did it occur after the battle, and she was being recognized for her heroism? Perhaps they’d never know.
The third scene showed the Eletian king, Santanara, giving Lil the winged horse banner that was now a cherished artifact of the Riders. The apex of the dome was illustrated with constellations and the god Aeryc looking down on the mortals beneath him, but from her vantage point Laren could see very little of it. Beside her, Dakrias produced a white cloth and wiped it across a glass panel. When he withdrew the cloth, he inspected it in his light.
“They are doing a good job,” he pronounced.
Laren wondered if it was wise to have just any clerk clean the fragile glass, but she had to admit, there was no dust or cobwebs in evidence, unlike the first few times she’d come up here. And if she wasn’t mistaken, the color in the glass looked even more vibrant.
“One of my senior clerks comes from a glassworking family,” Dakrias said, “that has created stained glass windows for many chapels of the moon, as well as private commissions. He trains and supervises the clerks who do the cleaning.”
“I see,” Laren replied, much relieved. “So he knows how to care for this properly.” She gestured at the dome.
“He does. Very much so.”
Laren slowly walked around the dome again, not sure what called to her. Just restless, perhaps, tired of talk of oncoming conflict, worried for her Riders, both in Blackveil and those carrying out their duties elsewhere.
As she came back again to the scene of a triumphant Lil Ambrioth standing in her stirrups, a detail caught her eye that she hadn’t seen before. It was in the receding storm clouds, blended in so that it almost disappeared, a symbol, more silver than the gray of the clouds. She leaned closer.
“Captain?” Dakrias asked.
“Look here.” She pointed it out to him.
Dakrias also leaned in, adjusting his specs. “I say, you are correct. Looks like . . . looks l
ike the threefold leaf symbol of the League, but if I’m not mistaken, it’s got four leaves.”
The threefold leaf had been taken by the League to represent the unity of its member nations: Sacoridia, Rhovanny, and Eletia. She had never seen the fourfold leaf before. What did it mean? Was there a fourth ally that history forgot? Or a fourth ally that history purposely chose not to remember?
“Dakrias,” she said, “do your clerks ever clean the underside of the dome?”
“Er, why no. It had not occurred to me to have them do so. It would be a complicated undertaking requiring lots of scaffolding and such. I think we’d need people accustomed to working at those heights to do it.”
“Hmm. I imagine with all the years of lamp smoke beneath the dome that it’s quite dirty, and that maybe there are other details we’re not seeing.”
Dakrias stood there thoughtfully for a while. “I will look through the castle’s maintenance budget to see if there are any funds available for a proper cleaning by master glaziers.” He smiled. “If there isn’t, I’ll apportion the funds from elsewhere.”
Laren was pleased. If the stained glass dome hid any stories of the past that might help them in the present, she wanted to see them.
DIRT
Karigan emerged onto the main floor of the mill building gripping the bonewood walking cane, pleased to have the professor’s in hand if not her own. In her time as a Green Rider, she’d grown accustomed to bearing sidearms and felt naked without any within reach. She still regretted the loss of her saber in Castle Argenthyne, and she would take what she could get. The day would come, she vowed to herself, when she reclaimed her own bonewood and all her other belongings, and took them home with her.
“It would probably be wise to return you to your chamber,” the professor said. “The night is waning. Wouldn’t mind a little sleep myself before the full of day begins.”
They found Cade going through cooling down exercises. He flicked his gaze at the bonewood in Karigan’s hands. “Is that wise?” he asked the professor.