Blackveil

  “A crisis, I fear,” Colin replied, supplying the answer she least wanted to hear. “In fact two.”

  Estora closed her eyes and the papers shook in her hand. No. She must not appear weak. She took a deep breath and steadied herself.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “News of both came from Green Riders,” Colin said. “Lieutenant?”

  The Rider nodded, and Estora wondered if he felt as lost without his captain as she felt without the king.

  “Your Highness,” he said. “The news comes from both the south and the north.” He told her first of word he’d received from the wall, an unbelievable story of an Eletian Sleeper—with an explanation of what Sleepers were—trapped in one of the towers, and how it was possible that more Sleepers turned by the darkness of Blackveil could pass through the towers into Sacoridia.

  “Rider D’Yer and Captain Wallace have requested more troops at the wall to guard the towers,” Connly finished.

  General Harborough opened his mouth to speak, but Colin gestured for him to wait. “Let Lieutenant Connly tell the tale of the north first,” he said.

  The general folded his meaty arms and waited with ill-concealed impatience.

  “I’ve received reports,” Connly said, “from Riders who’ve been trying to track Birch and his Second Empire renegades on the northern boundary. There’ve been incidents.” His eyes were cast downward. “The Riders have come across small settlements that have been destroyed, the people murdered to the last babe and elder. They’ve found evidence that the people suffered extreme torture, no mercy, before being executed.”

  Estora sat back, horrified. “Birch—he’s attacking our boundary?”

  “Dodgy bastard,” Harborough grumbled. When he realized what he’d said and to whom, he cleared his throat. “My apologies, Your Highness, for my coarse words. I’m used to speaking with the king.”

  To another man, she thought. “Never mind that. You were saying?”

  “Yes, Your Highness. The boundary folk who settled in the wilderness up there. They’re self-sufficient people, but certainly not prepared for military style raids like the ones Birch has been conducting. The reports are that the attacks and subsequent torture, rapes, and executions were methodical. Isn’t that correct, Rider?”

  “Yes, sir,” Connly replied.

  “Birch must be training his renegades for true battle, hardening them, by hitting weak targets first. He’d also know that despite the fact these settlers aren’t technically in Sacoridia, that his actions would infuriate the king. The evidence Lieutenant Connly here mentioned that Birch left behind was definitely meant to provoke. Birch is thumbing his nose at us.”

  Estora licked her lips, fought her own fear at the realization that she was responsible for deciding how the realm would respond, that she was responsible for the lives of the boundary folk and the soldiers who would eventually engage with Birch.

  She knew the general probably wanted to delve immediately into discussion of what the response should be, but first she asked Connly, “What of those people, the settlers not yet attacked?”

  “Word has gotten around,” he replied, “and most are seeking refuge this side of the border as they did during the groundmite raids.”

  Estora remembered. Some provinces, like Adolind, had been welcoming to the refugees, while others, like D’Ivary, had not. D’Ivary had, in fact, abused the refugees. As a result, D’Ivary had, by the king’s decree and agreement among the other lord-governors, a new lord-governor.

  She turned to Colin. “Ensure there are no problems with the lord-governors accepting refugees into their provinces. The king, as well as I, would wish for their safety. If problems arise, remind them of D’Ivary.”

  Colin bowed. “Yes, my lady.”

  “Rider, have you any more to report?”

  “No, Your Highness.”

  “Then you may be excused with my thanks.”

  He bowed and hastily departed, with a quick glance at the doors that led to Zachary’s bedchamber. He must be desperate to know about his king’s condition, and what was going to happen to his captain. If things were different, Captain Mapstone would be here advising Estora. And if the captain were not able to be here, Estora would have asked the lieutenant to stay. But things were what they were. Connly had been briefed on the captain’s suspension, and about his added responsibilities. To him it must appear a very threatening situation and she had no misapprehension about where his loyalties lay—with the king and his captain. He was unsure of her, not ready to trust, despite the past relationship she’d had with the Riders. Gradually she would try to bring him into her confidence, win his trust, but there were more pressing problems to attend to at the moment.

  And she must act decisively.

  “We need to hit back at Birch,” General Harborough said, “and hit hard. I can assemble a force to march north and—”

  “What about the towers?” she asked.

  “They are not an immediate threat.”

  “How do you know?”

  Harborough looked a little flustered, glancing at Colin for support. Colin remained neutral, did not speak. It was clear the general expected her to acquiesce to whatever he suggested. She was, after all, an untried woman with no warcraft behind her.

  “We do not know,” the general finally admitted. “But you heard the Rider. That Sleeper could have been in the tower for years, and there may be no others. No others that will awaken, or do whatever it is they do. Let Lord D’Yer handle it. Birch is actually attacking us. He’s the bigger threat.”

  “If I may interject,” Colin said, “Lord D’Yer has rotated his troops at the wall now for three years with only minimal support from the royal army. They are stretched thin. It seems to me more of our regulars could be assigned duty at the wall. It is a border that has been long neglected, and you see what neglect has wrought at the breach.”

  Lines of barely contained anger furrowed across Harborough’s broad forehead. “The D’Yers were supposed to be responsible for that wall. I don’t like the idea of splitting our forces on two fronts like that. We take out Birch and his renegades, then we can worry about the wall.”

  Colin and Harborough went back and forth, each emphasizing his point. Estora wished ever more fervently Zachary would wake up, recover. How was she to know what she should do? Zachary would know. Karigan would, too, she was sure. Karigan was the one who, after rescuing Estora from abductors, figured out how to further distract the brigands from hunting her and allow her to escape. It had been a dangerous plan, but clever. Karigan had made herself a decoy by dressing up as Estora and led the brigands away in a chase.

  It gave Estora a thought.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, interrupting what was fast escalating into an argument. The two looked at her as if they’d forgotten she was even there. “Birch attacks with stealth, does he not?”

  “Yes,” Harborough began, “but—”

  “And our scouts and spies have had difficulty finding and tracking his movements.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then I do not understand how you plan to engage him.”

  Harborough’s expression crumbled, his cheeks taking on a more ruddy glow. “We’ll step up our scouting and define a field of battle.”

  “But he isn’t using traditional battlefield tactics,” Colin said. “He’s attacking unprepared civilians.”

  Harborough’s chest puffed up and he looked ready to bellow at Colin. The general was definitely not a man who liked to be told he was wrong.

  “Gentlemen,” Estora said firmly, “I must agree with Colin. I think the situation calls for another approach. The Mountain Unit keeps a base to the north, does it not?”

  Harborough nodded. “But it’s more an outpost, too small to—”

  Estora silenced him with a look. She then told them her idea and they both gawked at her, stunned.

  When she finished, Harborough rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful. “I’ll have to t
alk with my officers and strategists,” he said, “but I must admit, it’s a very compelling idea. It will, however, still require additional soldiers.”

  “Of course,” she said, “but surely one unit could be spared to go to the wall, at least temporarily, even while we address the situation in the north. When the lord-governors assemble, it seems to me it would be a good time to suggest they take a more active role at the wall. The brunt of the problem has fallen on D’Yer, and yet it’s not just a D’Yerian problem. It’s a Sacoridian problem. Perhaps I can convince them to provide fresh provincial troops to help guard the wall.”

  Both men looked pleased by her solution, and after Harborough left, Colin said, “If I may be so bold, Your Highness, you did very well with such difficult problems. I am not sure Zachary could have done better.”

  After Colin left, Estora stood unsteadily and entered Zachary’s chamber, and sat at his bedside. She ought to have felt elated, or at least relieved, but instead she put her face in her hands and wept, her unconscious husband her only witness.

  “You must wake up,” she whispered to him. “I am not strong enough for this. I cannot bear it alone.”

  DAYS OF GRAY

  Karigan stirred and opened her eyes to gray, Yates’ head still resting on her shoulder. They’d both fallen asleep with their backs against the tree. They ought to have organized a watch between the two of them. Not that Yates could actually watch, but he could at least listen for trouble.

  Fortunately it was not raining as hard as it had been. She yawned, then detected movement from the corner of her eye. She looked, but saw nothing. Then there was movement again in her peripheral vision, this time in the opposite direction. She twisted around, but whatever it was was gone. She put her hand to the hilt of her sword and tried to stand, but the stinging pain ripped through her leg and she gasped. When she looked down she found it crawling with insects burrowing and biting into the wounds.

  She screamed and slapped at her leg.

  Yates started to wakefulness beside her. “What? What is it?”

  Karigan kept pummeling her leg, regardless of the howling pain, until she realized there were no insects. None at all. Illusion? All she’d managed to do was start the wounds oozing again through their makeshift bandages.

  “Karigan? What’s happening?” Yates reached for her, clamped his hands around her arm.

  “N-nothing. I thought . . . I thought I saw something is all.”

  “Are you sure it’s nothing?”

  “I’m sure. Bad dream, or the forest is playing tricks on me.”

  Yates did not seem to know what to say, so they sat in silence for some time, the wet forest drip-drip-dripping all around them. Finally he cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Uh, I’ve got a very full bladder. Think you can help me, er, find a place?”

  Karigan did not want to stand. “I will tell you where to go.”

  “Promise you won’t make me walk into a tree? Or fall down a hole?”

  “No promises,” she said in a weak attempt at humor. “You’ll have to trust me.”

  “There is no one I trust more,” Yates said very quietly.

  A hollow place inside Karigan ached at his words. He trusted her, he trusted her to help him get through this, to get out of this forest. If she were seeing illusions, how could she trust herself? How could she take care of him when she was falling apart?

  She took a deep breath. First things first. She directed him away, step by step, telling him when to lift his feet over a tree root or when to skirt a boulder. When he was some yards away, she gazed in the other direction to give him privacy while he took care of his needs. She’d have to take care of her own soon, but she just did not want to move her leg. She kept glancing at it to ensure there were no insects on it, real or imaginary.

  When Yates finished, she guided him back. He remained standing. “I assume it’s morning.”

  “It’s gray out,” Karigan replied, “so night is gone.”

  “You still think we should stay here?”

  “Yes, in case the others come looking for us.”

  He nodded.

  And so began a day of waiting, the mist wafting around as if it were a living mass that coiled between the trees and encircled them. Karigan and Yates ate their half-rations. Yates kept standing and sitting and standing, and looked like he wanted to wander off, but one jolting trip over a downed branch convinced him not to wander far. The monotony of gray throughout the day overwhelmed Karigan with the desire to nap and she had to shake herself awake more than once. The pain of her leg was tiring, and she feared whatever ichor the thorns contained had poisoned her. How bad? There was no way of telling.

  At least nothing had come to make a meal of them. Yet. And there’d been no sign of the illusory insects feeding on her leg. She swatted her neck and corrected herself: real insects were indeed making a meal of them one nibble at a time. She was astonished that the biters of Blackveil seemed no worse than those on the other side of the wall. Perhaps biters were already plague enough that the tainted magic of the place did not affect them.

  “They’re not coming back for us, are they,” Yates said for perhaps the hundredth time. He stood facing away from her, as if he could force his eyes to see again.

  “Don’t know,” Karigan replied. “They certainly won’t find us if we’re stumbling around the forest.”

  “Waiting around isn’t like you,” he said.

  She supposed it wasn’t, but a lethargy had settled over her, and waiting in this instance seemed the sensible course. She laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I was just thinking that I’d made a sensible decision to wait, and then I wondered since when had I started making sensible decisions?”

  As the bleak day passed, Karigan fell into a restless sleep filled with dark shapes and a sense of loathing. A rustling awoke her. Yates was sitting beside her and appeared to be half asleep himself. He hadn’t made the noise—it was farther off. She glanced around and caught movement, maybe a shadow, leaping between trees, and almost as soon as she saw it, it was gone.

  “What was that?” she murmured, feeling muzzy-headed.

  “What was what?” Yates asked.

  “Thought I saw something.”

  “Forest playing tricks on you again?”

  “Maybe,” Karigan replied.

  Some moments passed, then Yates jerked his head up. “Now I think I’m hearing things.”

  “What?”

  “Horses.”

  Karigan was about to tell him he was hearing things until she heard them herself, the sound of snorting and several hooves muted on the forest floor. Then she saw them a way off through the woods, six or eight dark gray horse forms ambling between the trees, pulling at sparse vegetation from branches as they went, moving with the mist, never straying from it, almost wearing it as a cloak.

  “You’re not hearing things,” Karigan whispered to Yates.

  The horses paused, lifting noses to the air, no doubt scenting Karigan and Yates. Karigan narrowed her eyes, wondering how prey animals like horses had survived Blackveil. Then she discerned that perhaps they were not simple horses. Their eyes gleamed amber-red through the mist, and their underbellies and the bottoms of their necks were armored with scales that rippled in the weak light. In fact their movements differed from ordinary horses; they seemed more flexible, their necks more sinuous. One shook its head and she realized even the manes were not ordinary, but bristle-stiff. She shuddered, both fascinated and appalled.

  The band continued along, fading away with the mist, vanishing utterly. She described them to Yates.

  “Just like everything else in this place,” he grumbled. “Not normal. Definitely not normal.”

  “They must be descended from the horses the Arcosians left behind,” Karigan surmised. “Somehow they adapted to the forest.” Or else Mornhavon had altered them as he had other creatures, she thought, but did not add.

  The mist horses did
not reappear and the interminable day began to fail.

  “Maybe my moonstone will help the others find us,” Karigan said, and she was sorry she hadn’t thought of it the previous night.

  By the time it was full dark, it had started to pour again. The light of Karigan’s moonstone flared out from beneath their simple shelter, turning the rain into threads of silver fire.

  Karigan awoke again to a sense of movement. They’d made it through another night even though, once more, both of them had failed to keep watch. Yates snored softly beside her. It was gray again and Karigan began to wonder if it was really the vapor of the forest, or if like Yates, she was losing her eyesight.

  And her mind.

  Movement. A black figure floated among the trees. She thought of the mist horses, but the form was human in shape. Had they been finally found by the rest of their companions? “Lynx?” Her voice emerged as a raspy whisper. Despite the wet of the forest, her throat was dry. “Lieutenant Grant?”

  No one answered.

  Using the bonewood, Karigan struggled to her feet, ignoring the pain striating her leg. When finally she stood, the figure ran off in graceful bounds, fleet of foot and soundless, and then vanished. Karigan tried to run after it, but her leg betrayed her and she fell with a cry.

  Yates was up instantly, crawling toward her, his hands feeling the way. When he reached her, he patted her arm, touched her face.

  “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I’m passable,” she lied. “Thought I saw something—or someone—again, but it’s gone. I think I’m going mad.”

  “Please don’t,” Yates said with a feeble smile. “We’ve enough problems.”

  He had, Karigan thought, no idea.

  They returned to their shelter and the day passed much the same as the previous one, though Karigan felt less well and gave Yates her half of the morning ration. She did not feel up to eating, and with a sickly languor weighing her down was more inclined toward sleeping.

  “You are very quiet,” Yates said.

  “Sorry. Not much to say.”