Mirror Sight

  “No-no-no!” Silk cried.

  Cade leaped to Karigan’s side and hacked through the net. They pulled severed strands apart until she was able to slip free, even as a heavily framed painting crashed to splinters beside her.

  Karigan prepared to go after Silk, but Cade caught her arm and pulled her back as more ceiling and a portion of wall caved in before them. Cade guided her through a haze of dust to the room of the moondial.

  She coughed and waved dust out of her face. “Silk,” she said.

  “Forget him.”

  The room of the moondial remained strangely serene, Lhean gazing at the phases of the moon. A few panes of glass from the dome had shattered on the floor, but there was little other obvious damage.

  “Lhean?”

  “Galadheon,” he said. “You are the blade of the shadow cast.”

  The riddle! How did Lhean know the line?

  His eyes were fathomless as he gazed at her. “The threads of time are in flux,” he said, as if knowing her thoughts.

  Eletians did not necessarily perceive time in the same linear fashion as mortals. If time was in flux, that was good, wasn’t it? They were already changing this future.

  “What does he mean,” Cade asked, “that you are the blade of the shadow cast?”

  A growing rumble and more quaking caused a couple more glass panels to crash to the floor. The four statues of the cardinal directions swayed on their pedestals.

  “I am the gnomon,” Karigan said faintly, “just like in Castle Argenthyne.”

  Lhean nodded. He held his hand out to her, and she walked toward him as if in a dream, Cade close behind her. Lhean centered her on the full moon.

  “Stand close,” Lhean told Cade.

  “What—what now?” Cade asked as the world shook itself around them.

  “Yes, what now? I haven’t my moonstone—it’s what cast my shadow in Castle Argenthyne.”

  Before Lhean could answer her, a drone filled the air.

  Ezra Stirling Silk shook himself out of the pile of rubble and dust that had collapsed on him. He felt around for his specs, but could not find them. The ancient urn he’d been trying to protect was in pieces beneath him, and indistinguishable from the ruin that surrounded him. His museum . . . The artifacts he had so lovingly collected. He rubbed his temple. It throbbed terribly. He must have been knocked unconscious for a little while. Where were his guards? His prisoners? The sputtering light seared into his sensitive eyes and revealed in brief flashes the catastrophic damage to his museum.

  Above the sounds of destruction, he heard a familiar drone. The drone of hummingbird wings.

  He squinted in the direction of the aviary. Support beams had dropped from the ceiling and broken through the cage and mesh.

  The drone increased in volume, the sound of furious hummingbird wings working. Had they been fed today?

  He glanced here and there, the flashing light burning his eyes, making it more difficult than usual to see. Wings buzzed past his ears. He scrambled to dislodge himself from the rubble so he might escape, but no sooner had he regained his feet than he lost his balance and fell to his side. He twisted to look up, and for a moment, the light dimmed to almost dark, and he saw their auras aglow, a great cloud of blood-red hovering over him, the whir of their wings nearly deafening.

  When the cloud plunged down on him, he could only scream.

  Karigan swatted at hummingbirds with the flat of her swordblade. Cade pulled one out that had lodged in his arm. Lhean struck and caught one out of mid-air, but others circled around and hovered over them. Karigan’s leg buckled when a beak impaled her behind her knee. She cried out in pain and yanked the bird out, its feathers greasy with her own blood. She staggered to her feet and tried to brush several off Cade.

  “Vien a muna’riel!” Lhean suddenly shouted.

  The shock of silver light spread to every corner of the chamber and sent the hummingbirds spiraling away through dust and debris into the other exhibition hall.

  The three stood there silently, breathing hard, and blinking in the intense light.

  “How did you—?” Karigan began.

  “I remembered how in Blackveil, Telagioth commanded the lumeni along the Lighted Path to illuminate,” Lhean replied.

  “It scared the birds off,” Cade said. “The light.”

  Karigan squinted toward the display case that held Silk’s collection of moonstones, but it was too bright to look at directly. Was hers, she wondered again, among them, or locked away in Silk’s office, or . . . ?

  “Do you not see, Galadheon?” Lhean asked. “We’ve our silver moonlight to reach a piece of time. You but need to lead us across the liminal line.”

  Could it be true? Was this enough to send them home to their own time?

  She glanced at Cade. “Do you really want to do this—go to my Sacoridia?”

  “More than anything.”

  Karigan smiled, but tried to contain her excitement. After all, this might not work, and she’d be stuck here for the rest of her life. The rumbling and shaking of the palace made her think that the rest of her life might not be that long.

  Lhean re-positioned her so now, with the brilliant silver light of the moonstones knifing past them, her shadow crossed the phase she assumed to be the ice-glazed moon. The three of them linked arms, Karigan in the middle.

  “Call upon your ability,” Lhean said, “so we may cross the threshold.”

  Karigan took a deep breath, and even as the palace was racked by more quaking and glass panels shattered on the floor around them, she grasped her brooch and faded. All went gray. Along with the noise of destruction, she heard the grinding of the winged statues rotating until they gazed down upon her, Cade, and Lhean.

  The crossing of this threshold stretched her, threatened to tear her apart. To one side, the side Lhean clung to, she sensed a summer night’s breath of air, fresh and alive and familiar—home! To her other side, Cade’s side, was a maelstrom, devastation, the future she was attempting to escape.

  Lhean hauled on her, but she could not move. She was anchored. Her sword slipped from her grip and arrowed back into the future. Her bonewood vanished, too, but into the past. Cade’s hold on her threatened to yank her arm out of its socket. He was wavery in her vision and was in danger of being sucked into chaos like her sword had been.

  No! She tried pulling harder on him, but she only edged closer toward chaos herself.

  “Galadheon!” Lhean pulled back on her, her shoulders being wrenched out by opposing forces.

  “Karigan!” Cade shouted, his voice distant. “You must go home.”

  “Not without you! I will not leave you!”

  “I am holding you back—I am not allowed to cross.”

  “No! I won’t—”

  “Karigan,” he said, “I love you.” He let her go. He fell back into the maelstrom and vanished.

  “Nooo!” she wailed and reached after him, but Lhean held on to her. “Let me go! Let me go!”

  “No, Galadheon. He would no longer remember you.”

  Lhean drew her back toward the familiar, the chirruping of crickets, the embrace of a summer evening, a cobblestone street underfoot, a familiar series of rooflines: the city that was no longer Gossham, but Corsa. Home. She breathed deep of it.

  But before she could even drop her fading, she was grabbed again, torn from Lhean’s grasp, from her world, and hurled into the heavens, among the stars, the planets, undulating masses of celestial clouds. She spun out of control, catching glimpses of tiny silver shards that glinted in starlight and pursued her like a comet’s tail.

  Why? What had it all been for?

  The spinning eased, and as she traveled, she thought she saw a crystalline staircase, a lone warrior standing on the landing, with her sword at rest. Forms vast and filmy moved about the heavens—celest
ial hunting dogs, great eagles, winged horses. Gods strode across the stars.

  She plunged. She was falling, falling, the silver shards changing course to follow as though she and they were inextricably linked. She remembered the silent laughter of the mirror man. She’d been presented three masks, had been forced to choose. She had rejected the three and chosen his. He had called her bluff.

  She fell at a great velocity, stars streaking by. The sound of immense wings sweeping the air came to her, and he caught her once again, Westrion, the Birdman, god of death. He cradled her to his chest as he had before, slowing her descent. The mirror shards slowed with them.

  “Why?” she asked him. “Why do you do this to me?”

  His raptor’s visage remained impassive as one word thundered in her mind: AVATAR. Then he flung her away, and she hurtled from the heavens and into the world.

  THE LONGEST NIGHT

  It was the winter solstice. Night of Aeryc. Despite the lively music echoing through the banquet hall, and festive boughs of evergreens adorning the rafters and great hearth, the mood was subdued among the guests who feasted with King Zachary and Queen Estora.

  Laren had eaten earlier with her Riders, a far more merry bunch than this lot, playing jokes on one another, singing, exchanging gifts, and dancing to simple tunes played on flute, fiddle, and drum. She could have ordered one of her Riders to attend the king this night, but they deserved a holiday, a little time off, and it was no hardship for her. She stood near the entrance to the banquet hall with a dozen or so attendants of various kinds, secretaries, aides, servants, all keeping watchful gazes on their masters and mistresses.

  Outside a snowstorm lashed at the windows, which would no doubt put a damper on the midnight candle walk along the streets of Sacor City. Lights to illuminate the Longest Night. The view of the candlelit streets, from the castle walls and battlements, was a sight to see, but tonight those candles would not stay lit in such high winds. Anyone going out was apt to get frostbitten for their trouble. No, it was best to stay in and sip the traditional mulled wine, and nibble on sugary pastries, and place the lighted candles in windows.

  She yawned, looking over the king and queen’s guests—local aristocrats and high-ranking officials mainly, some of the queen’s kin over-wintering in the city, and just a few lord- and lady-governors. The same winter weather that quelled battles with Second Empire also made ordinary travel difficult.

  They sat at three long tables laden with holiday specialties. A fish chowder had just been served. King and queen sat at the head table, presiding with quiet dignity over the dinner.

  Laren yawned again, earning a raised eyebrow from the Weapon, Fastion, who stood opposite her across the hall. It was the short days and long nights this time of year that got to her. They always made her sleepy. And it was just too . . . quiet. Not a bad thing, she supposed, especially with Queen Estora in her gravid condition. First pregnancies, so early on, could be precarious.

  A mild commotion broke out at the entryway, and Laren perked up. She glanced at Zachary to ensure he did not need her, and went to the doorway where guards and the Weapon Donal were holding back a trio of cloaked travelers. Not just any travelers, she realized, but Eletians. Immediately she recognized their leader, Somial, and the two who had accompanied him before.

  Somial’s eyes lit up when he saw her. “Ah. Captain Mapstone, it is well to see you.”

  “We were not expecting you. The king is—”

  “With deference to your gracious king,” Somial replied with a bow of his head, “we are not here for him.”

  “Then what brings you? What do you wish of us?” Did he have another puzzling message for her to take down to the tombs?

  “Merely to observe.”

  “To observe? To observe what?”

  Somial pointed back into the banquet hall. At first she did not notice anything unusual. Had the Eletians come to observe the humdrum rituals of nobles at their meal?

  Then the lamplight wavered. The fire in the great hearth roared up the chimney and threw off a shower of sparks. Tapestries fluttered along the walls and the air compressed in her ears. This was no ordinary draft.

  The guests looked around as their cloaks and skirts rippled around them. The usually stationary Weapons cast suspiciously about trying to identify the source of the disturbance.

  Then the air fractured and disgorged something—someone—out of nothing on a frigid current, as frigid as the starry depths of the heavens themselves. He, no she, flew by in a blur, landing unceremoniously on the center table with such force that she slid down its length, smashing a bowl of late harvest apples, sending goblets of wine splashing on guests. Baskets of bread flew into the air along with utensils and crockery. Hot fish chowder landed on Lord Mirwell’s lap, and among the cries of shock and consternation of the guests, his shrieks were the most piercing.

  Behind trailed a line of silvery shimmering . . . somethings. Laren could not seem to work her limbs or even her jaw. It was Karigan. This much she knew. Even if she couldn’t see her Rider’s face, only one person could make such an entrance.

  Zachary, who must have realized the same, stood. The Weapons ran toward the table. While Karigan moved swiftly, the motion around her was stretched out, took too long to happen. Karigan’s slide finally halted and she sat up, shaking her head as though dazed. The shimmering silver particles followed her down the table. She flung her arm up to protect her face as they impacted her. Her cry rang out clear and shrill through the hall.

  Even as time slowed the reaction of those around her, Karigan climbed to her feet, her hand over her eye, crimson trickling between her fingers. Her uniform blossomed with blood where silver was embedded in her flesh. She started running back down the table, and her boots, or what Laren had thought were boots, disintegrated off her feet and vanished. Her trousers frayed apart on one leg.

  “No!” Karigan cried out. “Let me go back! I must go back for him!”

  When she reached the end of the table, she leaped without hesitation as if expecting the frigid air currents to carry her back from whence she came.

  It was Somial’s companion, Enver, who was quick enough to catch her as she plummeted.

  Normal time resumed and the banquet hall was chaos, with screams of alarm and dismay echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Weapons and guards swarmed Enver and Karigan.

  Laren shook herself out of the spell that had befallen her. “To the mending wing,” she ordered Fastion and Donal. “Get her to the mending wing!”

  She would leave others to sort out the disruption in the banquet hall. She was about to run after the Weapons and the struggling Karigan who yelled at them to let her “go back,” when Zachary grabbed her arm. His eyes were wild. He was in shock. They all were.

  “That is Karigan,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “She came back. I knew she would. We must—”

  Just then, a cry, a different cry from all the others, ripped through the hall. Queen Estora was doubled over in her chair. More Weapons and her maid came running.

  Oh, no, Laren thought. Zachary hesitated, looked torn. “Your place is with your wife and the child she bears,” she said. “Go to her now and get the castellan to calm your guests. I will report to you on Karigan’s condition just as soon as I can.”

  “Yes.” This time he did not hesitate but strode directly toward Estora, issuing orders as he went.

  Laren ran out into the corridor both elated by Karigan’s return, and sorely worried for Estora.

  Karigan still struggled and fought against the Weapons who carried her away. All the way to the mending wing, she pleaded with them to let her “go back.”

  Go back where? Where had she been all this time? She had entered Blackveil nine months past and vanished. How had she arrived in such . . . in such a fashion? The Eletians followed along in silence, revealing nothing. How had
they known when and where to “observe” Karigan’s arrival?

  Laren chose not to summon any of her Riders, not even Connly, Mara, or Elgin, in order to prevent an onrush of Karigan’s concerned friends to the mending wing. Word would reach them soon enough. Ben, her Rider-mender, was here on duty. She grabbed him and pointed ahead to where Fastion and Donal tried to restrain Karigan so that Master Mender Vanlynn could look her over. Despite Vanlynn’s soothing tones, she could not calm Karigan.

  When Ben saw who needed his help, his mouth dropped open and he paled as though . . . as though he was looking at a ghost. Laren knew the feeling.

  “Quiet her, lad,” Vanlynn ordered him. “We can’t help her while she struggles in this manner. She’s near crazed.”

  Ben had learned a new facet of his special mending ability in the fall, and he used it now. He touched his finger to Karigan’s forehead, and she slumped in the arms of the Weapons. Ben’s touch would allow her to rest peacefully for a time, giving the menders an opportunity to examine and treat her. Perhaps when she woke, she’d be more herself.

  Vanlynn hobbled over to Laren, leaning on her stick. The elder woman had come out of retirement to replace the former master mender.

  “One of yours, eh?” Vanlynn said.

  “Yes. She is—”

  “I know who she is. My assistants will see to her. Meanwhile, I’ve been summoned to the queen’s quarters, and Ben with me. Your Rider will have to wait. Why they can’t bring the queen here is beyond me. Lord-Governor Mirwell will have to wait, too. He is apparently demanding my presence to treat the scalding of his nether parts. Ben!”

  “Yes, Master Vanlynn.” He had a mender’s satchel over his shoulder. He glanced back with regret to where Karigan was being moved into a room. “I’ve got to go,” he told Laren.

  “I know. The queen needs you.”

  He nodded and hurried after his chief. His other chief.

  Laren found a chair in a waiting alcove and sank into it. She had a feeling that the Longest Night was going to indeed be long. Elated, shocked, concerned—she did not know how to feel.