First Rider's Call

  Uxton raised his sword to land a blow on her. She rolled, evaded his blade, and drove the object into his foot, through boot leather, through stocking, through flesh and bone. He howled and the lamp careened into the air, its light flickering out before it crashed to the floor.

  As Karigan sank into nothingness, she heard Uxton whimpering some distance away, and ghostly laughter tickled her ear.

  The snow waned to a gentle flurry. Of all the things Laren had witnessed during her life, this was, well, one of the most “magical.” Outside she had left a sunny late summer day, only to find winter within. Snow drifted against the corridor walls, and statues wore fresh mantles of white.

  Servants shoveled paths through the corridors, and she saw more than one snowball arcing through the air. In fact, one almost hit her in the head. There was much laughter and merriment in the castle, the like of which she ordinarily associated with holidays.

  The merriment, she thought, was preferable to the fear such a strange occurrence could have as easily inspired.

  She permitted herself a smile, an unaccustomed use of her facial muscles. For her own part, she had not felt happier, more free, in what seemed like a hundred years. The spirit of Gwyer Warhein had taught her how to block out the insanity that had been feeding on her mind. The block worked so well she sensed nothing wrong with her ability at all.

  If she wished to call upon it, it would work for her unimpaired. She didn’t think she would, however, not for a long while. She had had enough input from her ability of late to last a lifetime.

  She turned a corner just in time to get whomped with a snowball. Some Green Foot runners had built snow forts and were engaged in battle.

  Their laughter died promptly when they saw who they hit. She strode by them, brushing snow off her shortcoat.

  “Carry on,” she told them.

  She left behind stunned silence, which moments later erupted into high-spirited shouts. She was feeling too good to be a killjoy, and now had a different perspective on the small pleasures of life.

  Let the children enjoy what they have before they become too burdened with the cares of adults.

  When Laren had finally emerged from her quarters, Tegan had practically launched into somersaults of joy, and then did her best to fill her in on all that had transpired during her absence. Laren had known bits and pieces, but now many of the gaps were filled in.

  The Laren Mapstone of old would have felt guilt for all her Riders had borne without her, and brooded over it till the end of her days. The reborn Laren Mapstone did feel guilt, but it was not as dark or heavy as it once might have been. No, she felt instead immense pride in her Riders, for continuing on with their duties despite adversity.

  For those they had lost, there was sorrow and grief, but she knew that even if she had been well, there was little she could have done to prevent their deaths.

  She halted before the door that led to the king’s study. Guards and a pair of Weapons stood at attention along the walls. So did a snowman.

  “You have a friend,” Laren told Fastion.

  The Weapon arched an eyebrow.

  Laren glanced from Fastion to the snowman, and back. It was all she could do to keep from laughing.

  “The king is expecting you,” Fastion said.

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and tapped on the door.

  “Enter,” came the king’s voice from the other side.

  To Laren’s astonishment, Fastion winked at her as he held the door open for her, and murmured, “Welcome back, Captain. You’ve been missed.”

  She left winter and entered summer once again. Sunshine flowed into the study, and birds twittered in the shrubbery just outside the windows. Snow crumbled off her boots and melted on the floor.

  Behind his big desk, Zachary toyed with a knife, but when she entered, he immediately set it aside and rushed across the room to enclose her in an embrace.

  “Thank the gods you are well,” he said. “You don’t know how I’ve missed you.”

  This was a better greeting than she could have ever hoped for. He scrutinized her from arm’s length and she was reminded of the little boy he had once been, his emotions unveiled and open, his cheeks slightly flushed.

  She knew he saw her gaunt cheeks and the lines around her eyes, and the pallor of her flesh. His expression was at once gentle and worried.

  “I don’t think you know—” his voice quavered “—how much Sacoridia depends on you.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Oh, I don’t know. It seems my Riders have held the place together rather well without me.”

  Zachary laughed. “And so they have. But I never want you to forget how much I value you as a counselor and friend; how much I depend on you. It has always been so. I also wish to ask forgiveness—”

  “No.”

  “Please.” His face was set and serious. “I wish to ask forgiveness for my execrable behavior, and for any harsh words I may have uttered.”

  He did not set forth any excuses when it would have been easy to do so. I didn’t have any idea, he could have said, that your ability was failing you. For this she found his request all the more admirable. He waited for her response and, she could tell from his eyes, hoped.

  “I forgive you, Moonling.”

  Zachary laughed in genuine relief, and hugged her again. He led her to a chair in front of his desk, and took his own place behind it.

  “I have been to the mending wing just now,” Laren said, “to check on one Rider who received a nasty knock on the head, and on another who was found unconscious in an abandoned section of the castle. There was also a soldier under restraint yelling like a madman about ghosts. No one, not even Destarion, could tell me exactly what happened. Can you?”

  The king sighed. “We haven’t quite pieced it together yet, but here is what I know. The madman, Sergeant Uxton of the Mountain Unit, or one of his accomplices, attacked Garth, then used a Green Foot runner to lure Karigan to the new Rider wing by informing her Garth had been hurt. Once there, she was attacked as well. For what purpose, we haven’t yet determined. Karigan put up a fight, and was found only after a servant discovered Garth and informed the guard.

  “Uxton was found crawling through snow in the corridor, leaving a trail of blood behind him from a stab wound to his foot.” He picked up the knife from his desktop. “Here, tell me what you think of this.”

  Laren took it into her hands. It was of an archaic style, with a wider, flaring blade. It was heavy, and not as fine as the blades she was accustomed to using, but killing sharp. The hilt was made of horn or bone, and inscribed in Old Sacoridian. She glanced up at Zachary.

  “This looks like a piece from the Sacor City War Museum.”

  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it.”

  “But it looks newly made, not worn as it should be for its age.” She weighed it in her hand.

  “Look at the inscription on the other side of the hilt.”

  She turned over the blade and found more Old Sacoridian, which she wished she could read, and a crude etching of a horse with wings. A shiver traveled up her spine and she looked at Zachary with wide eyes.

  “It was found,” he said, “clenched in Karigan’s hand.”

  “She traveled,” Laren murmured, “and brought it back.”

  “That’s what I believe.”

  Laren heaved a sigh of relief that Karigan had had the wisdom to explain to him about the traveling. “Destarion didn’t say much about her condition. He was . . . harried at the time. He did say her body temperature was low. I assumed it was due to the snow and her lying unconscious.”

  “She was in an old chamber where there was no snow.”

  “Then she traveled. She became ill with the cold the last time it happened. Of course, I’ve no idea why it happens at all.”

  Zachary filled her in on Karigan’s experiences at Watch Hill and with the Eletians, giving Laren Prince Jametari’s explanation for the traveling. His words were overwhelming.


  “Why do I have the sudden urge to run back to my quarters and lock myself in?”

  “Don’t you dare!” Zachary was so emphatic he half-rose from his chair.

  Laren chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to. Not for anything.”

  They talked more, exchanging information about all that had gone on. She spoke of Gwyer Warhein and of the help he offered.

  Zachary shook his head in disbelief. “I am thankful to him, apparition or not, but it seems all I once knew as true and normal has been upended.”

  There was a knock and the door cracked open. A soldier poked his head in. “Your Majesty? We’ve caught one of Uxton’s accomplices.”

  “Sergeant Uxton has been giving us names,” Corporal Hill said as they approached the blockhouse. “I know the sergeant, or thought I did, and it’s like something broke in his mind.” The corporal shook his head. “He keeps going on about some empire.”

  Laren and Zachary exchanged glances. The corporal opened the door and they entered the blockhouse. Within was an office and a few cells. Long ago, prisoners were locked away in dungeons beneath the castle, a horrible dark place Laren had been led to by Zachary on one of his expeditions as a boy. King Amaris II had discontinued the use of dungeons and had the blockhouse constructed. It was meant to hold those who committed acts specifically against the kingdom, but was more frequently inhabited by wayward soldiers who had gotten into drunken brawls.

  The enforcement of other laws was carried out by constables and justices in various towns, cities, and provinces. It removed the king from the business of keeping a prison.

  Seated within, and watched over by two strapping guards, was the most unlikely of prisoners. He sat slumped in his chair, specs sliding down his nose. He was thin, and certainly no match for either of his guards.

  “Is this some mistake?” Zachary demanded of Hill.

  “No, sire. Leastways, he was named by Sergeant Uxton.”

  Laren was as surprised as Zachary to see the chief administrator, Weldon Spurlock. He bowed his head morosely.

  “Please, Your Majesty, this is a mistake.”

  Laren had dealt with Spurlock from time to time. She thought him petty and mean-spirited, but had no reason to suspect he would harm any of her Riders.

  “No mistake!” Uxton hopped on one foot to the bars of his cell, his other foot wrapped in thick bandages. His eyes were wild, his hair standing straight up. He’d been stripped of his uniform and made to wear the gray tunic and trousers of a prisoner. “He’s the one who told me to get that Rider. He’s the one who told me to take her.”

  “You’re mad,” Spurlock spat at Uxton.

  “He’s the one who told me to take care of any problems at the wall. By any means. So I pushed Lord Alton into the forest.”

  Laren stiffened. “You killed him?”

  “I tried,” Uxton said. “Pushed him off the wall. Don’t know if he was dead or not when he hit the ground.” He giggled insanely. “Spurlock made me do it, and the forest took Lord Alton.”

  “Murdering liar,” Spurlock said. Looking up at Zachary, he asked, “You can’t believe a murderer, can you?”

  “I don’t lie!” Uxton pressed his face against the bars. “You’re our leader, aren’t you. You’re the head of the Sacor City sect.”

  “The what?” Zachary demanded.

  “The Second Empire,” Uxton whispered.

  Spurlock’s face blanched.

  Zachary crossed his arms almost casually. “Why don’t you tell me about the Second Empire, Sergeant.”

  Uxton launched into a tale right out of a novel, about a secret society made up of descendants of the soldiers and others stranded in the “new lands” by the Arcosian Empire. They called themselves Second Empire, for they waited over the generations for the proper time and opportunity to revive the ways and powers of the Arcosian Empire, and to subjugate all who did not bend knee to them. Spurlock, Uxton told them, believed the time was now, because of the breach in the wall, and the reawakening of Blackveil.

  “Lord Mornhavon is coming back,” Uxton said, eyes wide and his knuckles whitened from gripping the bars of his cell. “Spurlock spoke with his emissary.”

  “Nonsense!” Spurlock said.

  “A wraith from beyond the dead.” There was a tic in Uxton’s cheek at the word “dead.” “Varadgrim, lord of the north. He was . . . is . . . Lord Mornhavon’s lieutenant.”

  “The night barracks burned,” Laren murmured.

  Uxton nodded vigorously.

  “He lies,” Spurlock insisted, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. “A madman’s ravings; fantasies.”

  Laren looked sharply at him. “A wraith was here. I encountered it.”

  At the king’s encouragement, Uxton continued his tale of the Second Empire, of how they secreted themselves into Sacoridian life by participating in all trades and levels of society. Yet, they remained separate, marrying only within the society, revering texts and artifacts from their ancestors almost as holy relics.

  If true, a grave threat to the kingdom had gone unknown and unseen for a thousand years, ready and willing to re-ignite the Long War if necessary, to reclaim what they believed was rightfully theirs.

  Or had the threat been entirely unknown? A glance to Zachary showed he was disturbed, but not surprised by Uxton’s words.

  “Madman,” Spurlock muttered.

  Uxton stuck his hand through the bars and revealed a tattoo on his palm, a tattoo of a dead tree. “Members of the inner circles of each sect bear this mark.”

  Corporal Hill grabbed Spurlock’s wrist and pried open his fingers. On his palm was an identical tattoo.

  “It proves nothing.” Spurlock snatched his hand away. “It’s just a tattoo. I know nothing about this man’s ravings.”

  Laren believed Uxton. She could read the truth in his maddened eyes, but to be sure, she did what she had no desire to do, for she feared unleashing her gift. She feared touching it would be like uncorking disaster, and she herself would fall into madness again, that dark place to which she had no desire to return.

  She passed her hand over her brooch and her ability passed its judgment on Weldon Spurlock’s words.

  “Spurlock speaks false,” she said.

  Zachary nodded, not hesitating, not questioning. To Corporal Hill, he said, “Hold this man for further questioning.”

  Spurlock curled into himself like a wounded animal, his eyes turning to steel, his hands like bared claws. “You haven’t a chance. We’re in every province. There are thousands of us loyal to the cause. Unlike him.” He glared at Uxton with palpable rage.

  “I’m sure you have much to tell us,” Zachary said. “Arms Master Drent has many years of experience as an inquisitor.”

  Spurlock turned even whiter, if it was possible.

  Uxton chortled as the two guards dragged Spurlock into a cell, slammed it shut, and turned the key in the lock.

  Sperren entered the blockhouse accompanied by anxious courtiers. “Sire, it’s mayhem down in the city. We’ve been receiving reports of . . . of all manner. It would be helpful if—”

  “Of course,” Zachary said. “I’ll come right away.”

  Laren started to follow him out, but then paused, and walked back to the cells. Uxton gazed at her with eager madness, and Spurlock sat on his cot, arms folded, his expression acid.

  “Tell me,” she said, “what it was you wanted with my Rider.”

  “It’s not me that wanted her,” Spurlock said.

  “Then who?”

  “Blackveil.”

  Laren crossed her arms, disturbed. “So you were just going to push her into the forest like you did Alton D’Yer?”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” Spurlock said. “I don’t have to answer your questions.” He stubbornly faced the wall.

  “I expect Arms Master Drent will get what I need from you.”

  As she left, Uxton called out, “Don’t trust her, that Rider of yours—she’s Galadheon
,” and he returned to his own cot, giggling hysterically.

  Karigan dreamed of a white world, a freezing place where snow flurries fluttered down. She wrapped her arms around herself. Trees in shades of gray could be discerned, their spindly dead branches dangling down like spider legs.

  A figure hurried through the snow ahead of her and she pursued, trying to run through drifts, trying to see through the driving snow. The trees became denser, the branches snagging in her hair. She brushed them aside. Coated with ice, they tinkled like wind chimes.

  The figure turned. A man with beautiful dark eyes and bronze skin. The snow grayed his jet hair. In her memory-dream, he had been a boy, his name Alessandros. Even as a man, his features were unmistakable.

  His eyes swallowed her, and robbed her of all cover. She stood naked before him, shivering uncontrollably. She tried to hide her nakedness with her arms, wanted to run, but his eyes held her captive, and violated her by delving into her deepest desires and hates, and her secrets. When he learned her name, his lips curved into a smile of knowing.

  “You will come,” he said, and he walked off into the snow, and vanished. “I know where the Deyer is.”

  Something in Karigan’s left arm writhed and bulged. Through the translucence of her skin, she could see a black snake wriggle and slither.

  She screamed.

  But then she heard a distant sounding of a horn, and hoofbeats. Green—she became submerged in green like a soft cloak . . .

  SPURLOCK

  Spurlock glared at the wall, one hand clenching the medallion at his throat. The medallion of his brave ancestor, a man stranded in a strange land and forced to live among barbarians. Throughout his life, Spurlock had felt much the same, stranded among barbarians who were unequal in intelligence and ingenuity. He had never fit in among the Sacoridians.

  He gazed at the medallion. A depiction of the emperor’s palace was engraved on one side and a stately cypress tree on the other. The medallion represented a very high honor. After the empire’s abandonment, Lord Mornhavon had taken the sigil of the dead tree to represent his disconnection with Arcosia and the new regime he planned to build.