Mirror Sight

  The Eletians followed her into the alcove, and she noticed Fastion and Donal taking watchful positions in the corridor outside. She was not sure whether it was because they were concerned about Karigan, or the manner of her return, or about the Eletians. Probably all of it.

  “We shall keep vigil with you,” Somial announced.

  “We have prepared ourselves,” Enver added.

  “Prepared?” Laren asked incredulously. “Prepared for what?”

  Enver, his face serious, removed a parcel from his pack. Laren saw a familiar sigil stamped on it. “Dragon Droppings,” Enver said, “from the master of chocolate.”

  Laren thought perhaps it was time to make the candy-maker, Master Gruntler, an ambassador to Eletia.

  Somial seated himself in the only other chair in the alcove, his two companions gracefully lowering themselves to the floor to sit cross-legged.

  “What do you know of this?” Laren asked.

  “Less than you may imagine,” he replied.

  “Your less is more than my nothing.”

  He conceded her point with a bow of his head. “As you may recall, one of our own, Lhean, who accompanied the expedition into Blackveil, never returned, as the Galadheon had not.”

  “Of course.” It had been assumed, at least by the Sacoridians, that the two had perished in Blackveil.

  “Lhean returned to us late this summer. He arrived in your city of Corsa.”

  “Corsa? Where did he arrive from?”

  “A piece of time almost two centuries hence. He had been held captive by the people of that time. There were no other Eletians, no Eletia.”

  Laren shuddered from a sudden chill. “No Eletia?”

  “A bleak thread of our story. Alas, Lhean could tell us little of that world, for not only was he a captive, but he mostly remained in . . . hmmm, you might call it torpor? to preserve himself. He did say he hid for a time among the ruins of this castle and city before he was captured.”

  Laren was gripped by a sensation greater than a chill. It was colder, darker, the frigid exhalation of death.

  “We believe Karigan will be able to explain much more,” Somial said, “for she was there, as well.”

  Of course she was, Laren thought. It would not be the first time Karigan had surpassed the boundaries of time.

  “Why didn’t you come to us when Lhean returned?” And why hadn’t Lhean and Karigan arrived together? So many questions.

  “He returned weakened and disoriented,” Somial replied. “And Prince Jametari had his own reasons, which he need not explain to his subjects.”

  Laren narrowed her eyes. Eletian games.

  A mender leaned into the alcove. “Captain? Your Rider is resting. We—” The mender faltered when she realized the others there were Eletians, not everyday visitors to the mending wing.

  “Go on,” Laren said.

  “We, uh, have checked her over, and aside from bruises and lacerations, her main injuries appear to be from broken mirror shards. We picked most of them out, though the one in her eye . . . it is difficult, so we are awaiting the return of Master Vanlynn and Ben.”

  “Her eye? Will she—”

  “I do not know, Captain. We’ll keep you informed. In the meantime, you may sit with her if you like.”

  When Laren turned her gaze back to Somial, he had closed his eyes as though asleep. His companions spoke softly to one another in Eletian and shared Dragon Droppings.

  She stood and headed toward the room where they were keeping Karigan. Broken mirror shards. Lynx, who had also been on the expedition into Blackveil and returned, had told how Karigan had received a looking mask in the midst of Castle Argenthyne and destroyed it to deny Mornhavon the Black its power. Where else could the mirror shards have come from?

  Only Karigan could provide answers, but when Laren cracked the door open to look in on her Rider resting in the dimly lit room, she suspected it would be some while before they got any.

  INK AND MEMORY

  Laren half-dozed in the chair next to Karigan’s bed, startled awake every few minutes by Karigan’s muttering and tossing. She had decided to sit with Karigan in case her Rider awoke, or said anything of where she’d been all this time, but all she heard was a name repeated: Cade, Cade, Cade . . .

  Karigan was under the influence of Ben’s sleeping touch, but it was not enough to give her peace, and the menders were reluctant to supplement it with some other additional soporific, fearing the combination would damage her in some way. Laren wished Ben and Vanlynn would return. She wished she’d hear news of Estora.

  Laren herself had finally sent word to Connly down in the Rider wing about Karigan’s arrival. She very much wanted to send the news to Karigan’s father. From all accounts, hearing of his daughter’s death had been crushing, and rumors reached her of the merchant chief neglecting his business interests in his grief. He needed to know, but not before Laren could ensure Karigan was well, that she’d come back to them whole, nor could she send anyone out with a message while the storm raged.

  Karigan tossed again and muttered some words that sounded like, “Let me go back.”

  “Go back where, Karigan?” Laren asked quietly. “Who is Cade?”

  Her questions were only met with silence as Karigan quieted beneath her covers. Her right eye was bandaged, and having few details on the injury, Laren hoped her Rider did not lose her eye or her sight. It would not be an easy transition for her, as it had not been for others Laren knew. She was aware of plenty of one-eyed soldiers who remained in uniform, on active duty, undeterred by their losses. Karigan likely would have no choice in the matter. If she still heard the call, she would remain a Rider. If her brooch abandoned her, she would leave the messenger service. Whatever happened, Laren was grateful to have her back alive.

  She nodded off in her chair again and was not sure if she was dreaming or actually seeing the Eletian, Somial, standing over Karigan’s bed, his hands hovering over her sleeping form. Laren heard a wisp of soothing song, which almost lulled her into a deep slumber. Instead, she fought it, shaking herself into a groggy but awake state. She half-rose from her chair.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded of Somial. If he harmed Karigan in some way, she would stop at nothing to defend her Rider.

  “She was restless, her mind filled with urgency,” he replied softly. He turned his gaze at her, the dim lamplight odd in his eyes. “I have sung to her of peace. She rests quietly now.”

  Laren scrutinized Karigan. Indeed, she slept tranquilly, her chest rising and falling with deep, regular breaths. “Is that all you did?” she asked, still suspicious.

  “I sense in her an absence of . . .” He touched his belly. “There was a potential there that she carried, but even the faintest memory of it ever having existed has fallen to ashes.”

  “A potential? In her? Oh!” Laren fought to shake off the persistent grogginess. “She was carrying a—?”

  “Not precisely. The potential was there, the very earliest germination of a seed. The potential became unmade with her return. That which has yet to come to pass, cannot exist before its time.”

  It was a challenge for Laren’s sleepy mind to work it out, but she thought she understood. Karigan had traveled before to the time of the First Rider, about one thousand years ago, and returned to the present with a knife of that era in pristine condition. Objects of the past, objects that existed previously, could come forward. Those yet to be created could not come to the past.

  “Her return.” Somial sounded uncertain. “It is difficult to know its sway, if any, on the course of events.”

  “Course of events?”

  “There are many threads to the future, Captain, and clear to no one, not even Eletians. There are just too many variations.” With that, Somial departed, his feet silent on the stone floor.

  He left Laren much to th
ink about, not the least of which that Karigan had been, potentially, pregnant. A curious thing that, since female Riders did not become pregnant. Oh, they could after their brooches abandoned them, and they went on with their lives in the outside world. And some bore children before they were even called into the messenger service, though it was rare. But never while they were Riders. The belief that had come down the generations was that after the time of the First Rider, some magic had been instilled in the brooches to prevent pregnancy as a practicality.

  Had Karigan been in a time and place that lacked magic?

  She would not know until Karigan told her tale, but she had no doubt it would include heartbreak, and that this “Cade” had played a crucial part.

  • • •

  Morning light woke Laren again. She yawned and stretched muscles cramped by a night spent in a chair. She realized with a start that Karigan was no longer beneath the rumpled covers of her bed, but standing at the window peering through the frosty panes, her breaths fogging the glass.

  “Karigan?” Laren rose, took a step forward.

  Without turning, her Rider said, “How can it be winter? It was just summer.”

  Before Laren could speak, the door opened, and Vanlynn entered. “Good morning,” the master mender said.

  Karigan turned, the bandage over her eye once again taking Laren aback. Of course, Karigan would not know Vanlynn. “This is Master Mender Vanlynn,” Laren said, “who has taken over for Destarion.”

  “We have already met,” Vanlynn said, “while you slept in your chair, Captain. It did not seem necessary to wake you.”

  “Not necessary?” Laren demanded.

  “No. Your Rider has had a cup of broth, and now I’d like to examine her.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Captain, if you would step outside. I will report to you when I’m done.”

  Laren obeyed. Vanlynn was a bulwark of a mender and would not be countermanded, especially not in her own mending wing. It did not make Laren any less irritated.

  Her irritation was somewhat ameliorated by an apprentice mender who brought tea and biscuits to the waiting alcove. Neither Fastion nor Donal remained. Either they’d been ordered out of the mending wing or had returned to their scheduled duties. Her Riders remained absent, as she requested. There was little to tell them anyway. Ben was nowhere to be seen, and she wondered if he was still with Estora, and how Estora fared as well as the child she carried. There were no Eletians in sight. Perhaps Fastion and Donal had escorted them away.

  When Vanlynn eventually emerged from Karigan’s chamber, the master mender settled in a chair across from Laren. Tea was brought for her, too, and Laren noticed for the first time how tired the mender’s eyes looked. She must have had a long night. Being the master could not be an easy duty for one of her years.

  Vanlynn told her that Karigan was in good form. She’d an old broken wrist and lacerations that had healed well some time ago. The newer lacerations from the mirror shards, she thought, should heal without problem.

  “The only question is the eye,” Vanlynn said. “We removed a piece of mirror from it, but some particle remains. It irritates her, but she will not lose her eye.”

  “What of her sight?” Laren asked.

  Vanlynn sipped tea before answering. “I am unsure. I’d like to have Ben look at it after he recovers from his work with the queen.”

  There was more that Vanlynn was not saying, but before Laren could pursue it, Vanlynn continued, “I would say right now the most difficult thing for your Rider is what’s going on in here.” She tapped her temple. “She is disoriented, and from what the Eletian said, it’s not at all surprising.”

  “You spoke with the Eletian?” Laren demanded. That would teach her to doze off.

  “Of course. He told me about your Rider’s travel to a future time.” Vanlynn said it like it was an everyday occurrence. “In any case, whatever befell her there occupies her a great deal. She will not speak to me of it as she does not know me. It will be up to her friends to draw her out, to listen. But for now, let her rest. She’s been through unknown trauma.”

  At that, Vanlynn set her teacup aside and stood, abruptly ending the interview.

  “What of the queen?” Laren asked before the mender could get away.

  Vanlynn grinned. “The queen and the babies she carries are, thanks in no small part to Ben, just fine.”

  “Babies?”

  “Twins, Captain. She’s going to have twins.”

  Mara Brennyn headed toward the mending wing, assigned to keep an eye on Karigan for the time being. The captain wanted her to have a friend there to talk with, to be comforted as needed. Mara was one of Karigan’s best friends and agreed gladly to go. When Mara had been healing for so long from her burns, Karigan had been a frequent visitor, offering company and cheer. Now Mara would reciprocate.

  She left the Rider wing abuzz with promises to bring greetings and well wishes from many of her fellow Riders. After Karigan had been declared dead four months ago, a new Rider had been given her room, so now the Riders threw their energy into clearing out the cobwebs from another chamber. Garth, back from the D’Yer Wall for a time, had taken charge, hunting for furnishings in obscure storerooms of the castle. Mara was all too glad to escape the dust and labor.

  The news that Queen Estora was expecting twins was like adding cream on the pudding. They all deserved some good news.

  Speaking of good news, Mara decided, as she wove her way through corridors busy with holiday revelers, that she would not tell Karigan the news of battles, of Riders who had died, about Estral Andovian’s loss of speech, or that Estral’s father, the Golden Guardian of Selium, was missing. No, that sort of news could wait. Unless Karigan specifically asked, of course. Mara would not lie to her.

  When she reached the mending wing, she found its halls filled with the scent of healing herbs and the atmosphere hushed. It was something of a sanctuary, although, when she was here for so long while being treated for her burns, she’d thought of it more as a prison.

  “Are you looking for Rider G’ladheon?” an apprentice asked.

  “Yes,” Mara replied.

  “Fifth door on the right.”

  “Thank you. How is she doing?”

  “I believe she is doing well. Earlier, she requested a pen, ink, and paper.”

  That was good, Mara thought. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d find when she saw Karigan, but requesting writing implements sounded ordinary and reassuring. Perhaps she wanted to write to her father.

  But when she entered Karigan’s room, she saw how very wrong she was. The papers were scattered around, dark with ink. Apparently the paper had not been enough, for Karigan had written on her arm, her nightgown, the bed sheets, and was adding words to the wall.

  “Karigan?” Mara said from the doorway. “What are you—?”

  Karigan turned. The bandage over her eye was disconcerting, though not as disconcerting as seeing her covered in her own writing.

  “Mara?” Karigan hurried over and halted, her one eye darting about. She raised an ink-stained hand to touch Mara’s face—the side scarred by flame.

  “What are you doing?” Mara asked. She needed to get a mender in here. Her friend had gone mad.

  “Burned face,” Karigan murmured. “Fastion. Fastion had a burned face.” She hurried back to the wall to write on it some more.

  Mara followed her. Much of it was ordinary writing—lists, names, places, but a certain amount was garbled with odd symbols, almost as if from some unknown language.

  “Karigan, what is all of this?”

  “Enmorial. Memory, before it all fades. Before it’s unmade.” She scribbled on the wall and snapped the nib. “Damnation.”

  That sounded more like Karigan, but then she started pacing in a circle. “Cade, Cade, Cade,” she muttered.


  Mara did not know whether to shake Karigan or slap her. She was about to fetch a mender when Karigan halted and looked up. “I need to tell them!”

  Before Mara could stop her, Karigan ran, ran right past her and down the corridor, ink-blotched nightgown fluttering around her.

  THE TALE IS TOLD

  Mara tore after Karigan, who ran like a berserker through the mending wing corridors. The poor menders did not understand what was happening fast enough to stop her. She ran out of the mending wing into the throngs of cheery revelers who laughed and pointed at her as someone who had been celebrating too much. She shoved aside anyone who got in her way, causing some angry words.

  Down stairs, across corridors, along side halls Karigan flew. When Mara realized where she was going, she put on a new burst of speed, but could not catch up. When Karigan reached the doors to the throne room, the guards were too astonished and slow to react. The Weapons, in contrast, merely watched as Karigan bolted through the entryway.

  Curious.

  The guards blocked Mara, however. “That is Rider G’ladheon,” she gasped. “Needs help.”

  “Clearly,” one of the guards said acerbically, and let her through.

  The throne room was occupied by the king and his advisors, meeting with the lord-governors gathered for the holiday—except for Timas Mirwell who was, she’d heard, sequestered in his rooms recovering from scalding burns.

  Everyone glanced up as Karigan burst in among them. Thankfully, the captain was present. The lord-governors exclaimed at the interruption of the obviously mad woman running amok in the throne room. Karigan dropped to her knees before the daïs, and King Zachary rose, his mouth open, but was unable to speak.

  Mara skidded to a halt behind Karigan, panting hard. For someone who had been through who-knew-what and had just run pretty much the length of the castle, Karigan did not seem to be out of breath.

  “What is this?” demanded Castellan Javian. He was a severe man with steel gray hair, and his manner was as sharp as his voice, a deep contrast to his predecessor, Sperren.