Mirror Sight

  From nowhere, papers, many papers, started snowing down on them from the shadowed heights above. Laren watched in disbelief.

  Someone snickered.

  Laren tore her gaze to her Riders and saw to her amazement, her Chief Rider, Mara, cover her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking. As more papers drifted downward, Tegan joined her, and then Garth let out a great guffaw. Ty looked scandalized, and the newer Riders perplexed. What had possessed them?

  “Leave it to—” Mara sputtered between laughs. “Leave it to Karigan!”

  Laren raised an eyebrow.

  “Only at her memorial!” Mara then doubled over with the laughter.

  Others who had known Karigan started laughing as well, and it spread to the new Riders. There was even a hint of a smile on the queen’s lips. At first Laren was taken aback, but then she understood. As serious as many of Karigan’s adventures had been, she’d often found herself in ridiculous situations, such as wearing a theatrical costume of Mad Queen Oddacious to the king’s masquerade ball. People still talked about the girl who had ridden her horse all the way from Corsa to a busy market in Darden wearing nothing but her own skin. Under the influence of the Rider call, Karigan had actually worn her nightgown, but the story persisted.

  So Mara was right. Only at Karigan’s memorial would something so ridiculous occur as spirits lobbing books off shelves and tossing papers into the air. It couldn’t be just a normal, somber, dignified affair. Laren found herself grinning. Perhaps it was better they all remembered not just the serious parts of Karigan’s life, but those that left a lightness in their hearts. Whether the ghosts had intended to do so or not, they’d allowed the Riders to release some of their grief through laughter.

  When the flurries of papers settled and the mirth mostly subsided, Laren returned to the letter. Karigan mentioned the Riders with whom she had worked, alive and dead, remembering some small detail about each of them. Some memories were humorous, such as the time Tegan and Dale had dyed Garth’s uniform yellow. Others were more serious, such as acknowledging Mara’s bravery in facing a deadly wraith in the old Rider barracks, now gone to ashes, its foundation filled in and buried. There was gentle laughter now and again, and tears. Laren herself almost lost control when she read, “There is no finer leader than Captain Mapstone. She is brave, and fierce in her loyalty to the king and her Riders, and always my mentor, the woman I’ve admired most. I’ve tried to emulate her as a messenger and a person, but I fear I’ve mostly fallen short.”

  Karigan, Laren thought, you have never fallen short.

  She began reading Karigan’s final farewell, but was interrupted by a rattling, almost like the sounds of the earth quaking. The ground did not move, however—it was everything else: scaffolding, shelves, Dakrias’ desk and table, his piles of books . . .

  More objects started to fall from shelves and crash to the floor, and as the rumble intensified, debris also dropped from the scaffolding onto the assembled. The Weapons hustled Estora from the chamber.

  “Everyone out!” Laren cried after a plank of wood clattered down next to her.

  She waited to ensure everyone else was clear before she exited herself. The rumble had grown into a continuous thundering clamor. As soon as she stepped across the threshold after Dakrias, it all stilled, went silent.

  “They’ve never done that before,” Dakrias said, bemused, as he gazed back into the chamber.

  Nor had the ghosts ever interfered with a memorial circle before. In times past, she’d sensed them as watchful presences, but nothing more.

  Everyone milled in the corridor, voices raised in consternation.

  “Silence!” Laren bellowed, Karigan’s forgotten letter fluttering in her hand as she gestured for attention. She cleared her throat, folded the letter carefully, and inserted it into her pocket for safekeeping. “The memorial circle is postponed for tonight due to . . .” Due to what? Mischievous ghosts? “Well, you saw. In any case, we will conclude the memorial honoring Karigan another evening.”

  Her pronouncement was followed by the crash of what sounded like a heavy wooden crate hitting and splitting on the records room floor. Dakrias groaned.

  “In the meantime,” Laren said between gritted teeth, “you are dismissed to quarters.”

  As Weapons and Riders filed down the corridor, Arms Master Drent paused before her. “Interesting ceremony, Captain. Can’t say as I’ve seen the like. Fitting, somehow.” And then he moved on, his hulking figure shouldering its way through the others.

  Laren sighed. Yes, it was fitting. As Mara had said, such madness would happen only at Karigan’s memorial.

  Queen Estora also stopped to speak with her. “You must inform me when you decide to conclude the ceremony.” She glanced into the records room with bright eyes. “I think Karigan would have been overwhelmed by it all and not just by the unusual circumstances.”

  Laren could not disagree with this, either. Karigan was often surprised when she became the center of attention, and shied from it. The queen bade her goodnight, and Laren bowed. As the corridor emptied, she caught Fastion’s arm as he strode by. “Would you mind waiting behind?”

  “Not at all, Captain.” He sidled to the wall to allow others to pass.

  When everyone else had left, Laren found Dakrias in the doorway of the records room peering inward. “Do you think it’s safe?” he asked.

  “You would know better than anyone,” she replied.

  Dakrias appeared to steel himself, settling his administrator’s gowns about him and straightening the specs on his nose. With a curt nod he stepped into the records room. When nothing ill happened, he took a few more cautious steps. Laren and Fastion followed him, surveying the damage.

  “I will assign some Riders to help clean up this mess in the morning,” Laren told Dakrias.

  “I thank you,” he replied, “and my clerks will, too. I’ve not the faintest idea of what got into the, um, spirits tonight, but it was rude conduct on their part during so solemn an occasion.” He projected his voice upward as if to ensure the ghosts heard his remonstration.

  Who could know what had stirred up the ghosts? She might have to finish Karigan’s memorial elsewhere for safety’s sake.

  “Fastion,” she said, “I’d like to see the glass dome to make sure it hasn’t been damaged.” Since it was not the actual chamber that had trembled, she was optimistic no damage to the glass had occurred, but she had to make sure.

  “Of course. I will light it up for you and check for damage up top, while you inspect it from below.” Without another word, he strode from the records room.

  Laren waited, hearing muttering from Dakrias who attempted to straighten the mess on his desk. She turned at the sound of footsteps entering the room. It was not a ghost, or one of her Riders, but none other than Zachary, accompanied by a pair of Weapons and three Eletians. After her initial surprise, she bowed to her king.

  Zachary looked about, baffled by the mess. “Tell me, Captain, exactly what kind of ceremony is it you conduct here?”

  Laren refrained from making a sarcastic reply. “We have decided to conclude our memorial for Rider G’ladheon on another night when there is, er, less turbulence.”

  The mention of Karigan’s name in the same breath as the word “memorial” brought a flash of pain to his eyes, but he revealed no more of his true feelings. As for the Eletians, she had met none of them before, two males and one female, but they held the beauty all Eletians possessed that made it so difficult not to stare at them. One of the men, the younger male, was somehow muted in his looks compared to any other Eletians she had ever met. He was still striking, but his inner light was less intense. There was a more earthly quality about him. But why had they come? And why had Zachary brought them to the records room, of all places?

  “Allow me to introduce our guests,” Zachary said. “This is the leader of the tiendan. His n
ame is Somial.”

  The foremost Eletian nodded, silvery hair flowing about his shoulders.

  “Somial,” Laren said. “I have heard that name. Karigan met an Eletian named Somial.” It had been before Karigan was officially a Rider, at a time when Eletians were little more than legend.

  “Yes,” Somial said in a pleasing voice. “We helped her along the road after her most heroic battle with a creature of Kanmorhan Vane. It brings us great sorrow that she . . .” He paused as if searching for the correct words. “It is difficult for us to know what to say as we deal so little with mortality. Perhaps I should just say we have sorrow that she is not here with us.”

  “Thank you,” Laren said quietly. They hadn’t come just to offer condolences, had they? If that were the case, wouldn’t their prince have sent one who knew the proper words?

  “My companions,” Somial said, “Idris—” The woman nodded gravely. “—and Enver.”

  The young man came forward and presented his hand. When Laren got over her surprise, she clasped it and shook.

  “How do you do?” he asked in a practiced cadence.

  “Well, thank you. And you?”

  He smiled, his eyes alight. “I am fine.”

  “Enver,” Somial explained with an indulgent smile, “has been studying the customs of your people. He is very pleased to use what he has learned.”

  “Somial and his people have come to us,” Zachary said, “at the behest of Prince Jametari. Specifically, they wish to see you.”

  “Me?” In a night of surprises, this was the biggest.

  “Yes, Captain,” Somial replied. “He wishes you to send a message.”

  Laren glanced at Zachary, who shrugged, their purpose as much a mystery to him as it was to her. “Surely Prince Jametari has his own messengers?”

  “Yes.” Somial looked amused. “We tiendan serve that purpose, but our prince has had a vision. The message must be written in your hand. In fact, three messages.”

  When Somial told her what she must write and what she must do with the messages, she thought the Eletians and their prince positively mad. Something like hope lit in Zachary’s eyes though he attempted to conceal it. Laren thought the scheme not only foolish but also cruel. If nothing came of it, it would only compound and extend their pain at losing Karigan.

  Zachary must have sensed her hesitation, because he said, “I order you to do as they say, Captain. I feel that it is right.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” she said. She bowed as he left the chamber. It was his final word on the matter.

  The three Eletians remained behind and were all looking up. She followed their gazes to the lighted stained glass dome. Even with the scaffolding in the way, she could clearly tell the difference between the panel Master Goodgrave had cleaned and the ones he had not yet gotten to. The colors of Lil Ambrioth kneeling before a moon priest were brilliant, her green cloak never before so vibrant, King Jonaeus’ crown no longer dim, but a shining light. The uncleaned panels were subdued by comparison.

  “The leaf you seek,” Somial said, as if pronouncing a vision of his own, “will be revealed to you in the panel of victorious battle.”

  “What?”

  But he was bowing away, his two companions after him. How did he know? Before she could ask, they were gone.

  She gazed back up at the dome—not at the newly cleaned panel, but at the one that depicted Lil and her Riders in an aspect of victory over their enemies, the mountains rising behind them and the storm clouds of war receding. That was where she’d seen the symbol of the four-fold leaf, and it made sense that if more clues were to be found about the League’s major ally in the Long War, then it should be in that panel. She would leave a message for Master Goodgrave to clean that one next.

  Then she would write the messages as relayed to her by Somial. And commanded by Zachary.

  Karigan, I do not know what you would say to all this, she thought. Then revised, Or perhaps you, of anyone, would.

  She decided to join Fastion up above and inspect the dome from that angle. As she left the records room, of all the oddities this evening had brought, she wondered why Eletians traveled in threes, or multiples of three.

  It was one mystery among so many.

  THE FIRST MESSAGE

  Karigan barely listened as her two visitors prattled on and on about Dr. Silk’s dinner party the night before, evaluating the dress of this lady or that.

  “And oh, those women of the Capital!” Mrs. Downey exclaimed. “No sense of decency among the lot of them with those short veils of theirs.”

  Mrs. Greeling nodded in agreement. The two appeared to carry on the conversation quite adequately without the least input from Karigan, which was just fine with her. It had been this way all morning, since just after breakfast—ladies calling on her as if her appearance at Dr. Silk’s party had immediately rendered her acceptable to society. She assumed what lured them to the professor’s parlor were equal measures of curiosity about his reclusive niece and a desire to inspect her worthiness as a possible match for their sons. A number of callers had looked her up and down most intently, as if judging livestock suitable for breeding.

  She thought that it was probably the professor’s Preferred status, more than anything else about her, that had drawn Mill City’s matrons, but they would want to make sure she was not defective physically and able to produce heirs for their sons. Female mental capacity, she guessed, was not terribly important in the empire. They would look past Kari Goodgrave’s madness if it meant aligning with a family as important as the professor’s.

  Karigan’s own thoughts were immersed in the visit of Cloudy the cat in the very early morning hours, and so she became deaf to the indignation of Mrs. Downey and Mrs. Greeling over short veils and low necklines. Even now, in her mind’s eye, she could see the message Cloudy had borne, the loops and curves and angles of the handwriting that was so familiar to her, that of Captain Laren Mapstone. She’d sat there on the bed, stunned, staring at her own name written in faded black ink. The paper was yellowed, coarser in texture than that produced by the empire, indicating it was of some age. How had anyone known to send it to her? How had it come to her over so many years? Was it even real, or had someone forged the message, and if so, to what end?

  She became aware of Lorine and Arhys entering the parlor, bringing in more trays of tea cakes and a fresh pot of hot water. Arhys was pouting and glared at Karigan before she tromped out of the room with a toss of her head, apparently jealous of all the attention Karigan was receiving. Most likely, Arhys would have loved sitting in the parlor sipping tea with the matrons of Mill City.

  “—and he has co-opted the slaves from mill three of my husband’s cotton mills to work on that excavation of his,” Mrs. Greeling was saying. At some point the conversation had moved from veils to Dr. Silk’s project.

  “His and four others,” Mrs. Downey replied, “so he can operate the site all day and night.”

  “I do not know how my husband shall make up for the lost labor,” Mrs. Greeling said. “It is setting us back—and the cost to replace the slaves and the time it takes to train them to the work?” She shook her head at the hopelessness of it all.

  “It is the emperor’s will,” Mrs. Downey replied, gazing into her teacup.

  They could, Karigan thought, hire paid labor, but such a revolutionary idea would reap accusations of sedition. The empire’s foundation was built on the backs of its slaves, allowing a very small elite class to live very well, like the two ladies before her. Like the professor. That much was clear. The discussion turned abruptly from that depressing theme back to the less controversial trivialities of the party and its entertainments.

  Karigan sank back into her own thoughts. The message had been very direct and very like the captain.

  Karigan,

  Go to the Heroes Portal at midnight.

 
L. Mapstone, Capt., HMMS

  • • •

  She could almost hear the captain speak the words, see her fold the paper, and still Karigan was assailed by all the questions. How had the captain known she’d receive the message? What did it all mean, and why now? Why not when she’d first arrived? One point she was certain about was that Cloudy could only be a tomb cat, like her friend, Ghost Kitty. Somehow the tombs had survived Amberhill’s catastrophic weapon after he’d turned on his own king and country. The tombs had survived with at least some members of its caretaker community intact; enough that someone knew to send Karigan a message in the future.

  Karigan had dealt with ghosts, had confronted monsters and Mornhavon the Black. She’d witnessed strange magic and had moved through time before. Still, the simple message from her captain, brought to her somehow through the passage of years, rattled her. Little ripples formed in the cup of tea she held in shaking hands.

  It also gave her hope. Someone knew she had not died in Blackveil. Someone knew she had come forward in time. At the Heroes Portal, would someone tell her how to get home?

  “Well, it has been very charming to visit with you, Miss Goodgrave,” Mrs. Downey said. She and Mrs. Greeling were rising from their chairs and dropping their veils over their faces.

  They were leaving at last, thank the gods.

  After Grott showed them out, she told him absolutely no more callers. She could not take it anymore. She paced back and forth in the parlor, wondering what to do with herself until midnight, because she had to do something or go truly mad.

  Decisively she turned on her heel and headed out of the parlor and down the corridor. She would go to the stables to visit Raven. She’d ensure he was ready to go tonight and that her Tam Ryder outfit was in its usual place, and then she’d work out her route.

  “Miss Goodgrave!” Mirriam intercepted Karigan at the back door. “Grott says you do not wish to receive any more callers. You should be grateful these ladies are willing to make your acquaintance.”