Blackveil

HER PARTICULAR SKILLS

  Estora was surprised to learn that only a couple of days after her meeting with Connly, Beryl Spencer had arrived on castle grounds. A secret meeting was promptly scheduled for the solarium. When Estora arrived, she was annoyed to discover a servant jabbing at cobwebs in the corners of the room with a broom. The woman hummed to herself, oblivious to Estora’s presence.

  The queen cleared her throat and the startled creature dropped her broom and shrieked. When she turned and saw who it was, she gave a trembling curtsy.

  “Sorry, ma’am, sorry. Cleaning the cobwebs is all. Cleaning the corners.” She curtsied again, a bent thing in home-spun drab.

  “You may be excused,” Estora said calmly enough, though she wished to scream it. Beryl Spencer would not come if there were witnesses, especially gossipy castle servants, and she was due any moment.

  “Aye, ma’am. Must get me broom.” The woman fumbled after the broom.

  “Leave it,” Estora commanded. “I wish you to go now.”

  The servant unfolded and stood tall. A pair of sharp green eyes peered at Estora from beneath strands of hair hanging over her smudged face. Estora blinked rapidly at the woman’s transformation from a simple servant to a personage with a commanding presence. Someone of intelligence and cunning, someone dangerous.

  “Beryl Spencer,” she said on an exhalation.

  “At your service, Your Highness.” She bowed, and there was a mocking edge to it.

  “I’ve heard about your ability,” Estora said, “but I did not expect so direct a demonstration.”

  “Connly emphasized discretion,” Beryl replied. “If anyone saw me, they saw only a simple servant with a broom. But then most people don’t really see servants. They are beneath notice.”

  It was true. One might be aware of servants moving about the castle as they attended to their duties, but to most who carried on their more important work as ambassadors, officers, or courtiers, servants might as well be invisible. They were undistinguished, and indistinguishable.

  The role Beryl Spencer had chosen to play was clever, but in a way, disturbing. Who else could disguise themselves as a servant and gain access to the entire castle? Estora shuddered. She was being paranoid again. It was Beryl’s special ability to portray a role that made her so convincing, and yet . . . Estora decided she would take this as a lesson in the security, or lack thereof, in the castle.

  “It appears much has happened since last I was here,” Beryl said.

  “Yes,” Estora replied simply. She did not doubt the Green Rider had already gleaned all the fine details of the assassination attempt and the subsequent wedding and who all the players were. She had, after all, skills beyond playing roles like that of a servant attending to her cleaning. Zachary had used those skills exhaustively, and Beryl had spent years as a spy in the court of Tomas Mirwell. It was these skills Estora now intended to make use of. However, she wondered what Beryl thought of her sudden marriage to Zachary and the confinement of Captain Mapstone. Would Beryl be willing to help her?

  Beryl cocked her head, but gave away nothing. Estora felt uneasy under her scrutiny. “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said.

  Beryl inclined her head. “You are the queen. I serve.”

  For some reason, Estora did not feel reassured by the words. She imagined they were like the words Beryl had used with Tomas Mirwell before she betrayed him. She’d played her role in Mirwell fully, and Estora heard that many in Mirwell’s court feared Beryl more than Mirwell himself. She’d served as his aide, his enforcer, his interrogator. People disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again.

  What were her true loyalties? Estora wondered. But Zachary trusted her, and she was, after all, a Green Rider. Would she have been called to the messenger service if she were disloyal to Sacoridia and its king?

  “What do you wish of me, my lady?” Beryl asked. “General Harborough is pressing Connly to send me north.”

  “Yes, I am aware of this, and you will not be sent without my say-so. General Harborough must answer to me.”

  There was an almost imperceptible flicker of approval on Beryl’s face.

  “I require your particular skills here for the time being,” Estora said.

  Now Beryl looked intrigued. “How may I serve?”

  “Have you ever chanced to meet my cousin, Lord Richmont Spane?”

  “We have not met formally, but I am aware of him, of course.”

  The way Beryl said “of course” indicated to Estora that the Rider knew something of his intrigues. Estora smiled. Beryl was in her way more frightening than Richmont ever would be, but Estora needed to trust her. She prayed that trust was well placed.

  “I believe we’ve much to discuss then,” Estora said.

  “It would be my honor,” Beryl replied.

  SIGNET RING

  The walking, or rather limping, proved grueling, and sweat streamed down Karigan’s brow. Even with the aid of the bonewood, she could not keep up with the swift pace Graelalea set, but this time, when she straggled behind, Ard or Telagioth would call ahead telling Graelalea to wait. Karigan did the best she could, and kept focused on the path ahead. Still, dancers with masks taunted her from the shadows. Once, when she looked dead on, the dancers melted into trees, their limbs swaying with the passage of a breeze.

  Another time she looked, she became so besotted with the scene of dancers strutting to some dissonance that Telagioth had to shake her out of it.

  “You don’t see them?” she asked him.

  “See who?”

  “The dancers. The masquerade.”

  “No, I do not. I see trees, and they wear no masks.”

  Karigan nodded and pushed on, resigning herself to the fact that she walked in two worlds: the one wrought by the poison of the thorns, and the other, the world as her companions saw it.

  When finally they paused for a break, Karigan came up from behind to find Graelalea drawing in the mud with the tip of her dagger.

  “If we can keep up our pace,” she said, “we will reach Castle Argenthyne in a few days.”

  The drawing, Karigan saw, was a map showing where they were and how far they had yet to go. Yates looked frustrated he could not see it. They were on a squiggly path to a spot marked with an X, and they did not look far from the X.

  When Grakelalea finished, everyone except Yates went their separate way to sit or take a drink of water. “Karigan,” he called.

  She limped over to him. “I’m here.”

  “Good.” He lifted the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and thrust it into her hands. “You need to copy whatever Graelalea’s drawn,” he said. “For the king.”

  Karigan’s mouth dropped open. She wasn’t much of an artist. “But—”

  “You’ve got the neatest hand among us,” Yates said. “Just do your best.”

  “All right,” she replied uncertainly. She dragged herself to a nearby rock and sat, then removed Yates’ journal and writing supplies from the satchel. As she flipped through the journal, she found pages filled with his own tidy handwriting, maps sketched out with measurements and landmarks, and other drawings that appeared to be more of a personal nature. She did not think it any of her business to pry, so she did not pause to look at the pictures, but the journal fell open to a lovely rendering of Hana. He must have done it early on in their journey, for he’d captured her with a hint of a smile on her face.

  “You’re an amazing artist,” Karigan said. It was even more amazing she had not known this side of him.

  “I take after my mother,” he said proudly. “She did most of the etchings and art for my father’s press.”

  As Karigan searched for a blank page, she caught glances of drawings of the forest, its flora and fauna, including hummingbirds. She shuddered, and hastily found a blank page. She copied Graelalea’s map as best she could, jotting down notes. It was nowhere as good as Yates would have done, but passable. Thanks to her practice in keeping the Rider books, her hand
was very neat.

  When the ink dried, she replaced the journal and pen in the satchel, and put it into Yates’ hands, but he immediately passed it back to her.

  “You’d better hold onto it,” he said, “in case something else needs recording.” More somberly he added, “You also have a better chance of getting this back to the king.”

  Karigan started to protest, but he shook his head. “I’m not giving up, just being realistic.”

  Another layer of gloom blanketed her. She knew he was right, but she did not have to accept it. They would get out of Blackveil. All of them. They had to.

  Grant paced nearby holding his arm to himself. He was pale and perspiring. “Nythlings,” he muttered. “Gotta let the nythlings come.”

  Graelalea came and crouched before Karigan. “I would like to take a look at your leg.”

  “Maybe you should look at Grant’s arm.”

  Graelalea sighed. “I have tried, and more than once. He refuses me and becomes violent if I press him.”

  “I’ve seen it,” Ard said, easing down onto a nearby rock. “He didn’t show me, mind, but I saw him looking at it. Sickly in color with black lumps on it.”

  “I cannot aid him unless he wishes it,” Graelalea murmured, and she set to tending Karigan’s leg with fresh evaleoren salve. Karigan sighed as the salve absorbed the pain.

  “I offered to help, too,” Ard said, “and he offered to smash my face in.”

  Short of all of them jumping on Grant to hold him down, Karigan didn’t know how else they could help him. Perhaps if he got much worse, they’d have to do just that.

  When Graelalea finished with Karigan’s leg and moved off, Karigan glanced at Ard who sat with his head bowed and eyes closed as he rested. The journey had been hard on him as it had been on all of them. He’d lost considerable weight. When she looked at his hands splayed on his knees, his knuckles skinned and embeded with dirt, a shining silver ring that she had not noticed before caught her attention. Had he worn it all along and she just hadn’t seen it, or was it something he put on recently? If so, why?

  It was not a wedding ring, though it was placed on the customary finger. Ard had stated he’d no family. It bore a sigil depicting the cormorant crest of Clan Coutre, so perhaps he was, in a way, bound to the clan in no less of an important way than a marriage. He must be held in great esteem by Clan Coutre for a simple forester to be in possession of such a ring.

  Ard stirred and met her gaze. “Something on your mind?” he asked gruffly.

  “I was just admiring your ring.”

  His hands came together and absently he twisted the ring around his finger. “A gift,” he said, “from the lady.”

  “Lady Coutre?”

  “No, my Lady Estora. When she gave a blessing upon me for my safe return from Blackveil. The ring is a gift of trust that I will carry out my duty here in the best interest of the clan, which it is my honor to do.”

  Ard’s eyes were hooded as he regarded her and she sensed there was more to it than he said. Karigan did not have a chance to probe more deeply, however, for Graelalea announced it was time they continued their journey.

  Over the days that followed, Karigan’s strength gradually improved, her leg showing minute signs of mending with each application of the evaleoren salve. Her visions of dancers in the forest became less frequent as well. One or two would occasionally catch the edge of her sight but would then quickly vanish.

  She still fell behind, and Ard often dropped back to walk companionably beside her, not speaking, but keeping an eye on her. On the whole, the company made little conversation. The farther along they got, the faster Graelalea led them, and the faster Graelalea went, the more Karigan fell behind. She had especial trouble on a part of the trail that was at the base of a cliff buried beneath a sloping rock fall. They had to pick their way over slick boulders and wobbly rocks. The uneven and treacherous surfaces taxed Karigan’s bad leg and she fell farther and farther behind, but Ard patiently stayed with her. She was pleased by his company.

  “Have you always been a forester for Clan Coutre?” Karigan asked him, her interest in his background aroused by his signet ring. Her feet almost flew out from beneath her on a slimy rock. She saved herself, heart thudding, and was once again thankful for the bonewood staff, which helped her regain her balance.

  Ard, watching her from several boulders ahead, said. “Always. And my father before me. Lord Spane took him in, gave him the position to assist the head forester, looking after Lord Coutre’s lands. We’d been destitute before that, but Lord Spane took care of us.”

  “That was very good of him,” Karigan replied.

  Ard stayed perched on his boulder watching her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He glanced over his shoulder. The rest of the company was out of sight.

  “Aye,” he said. “And then the lady was born. Sweetest child ever there was.”

  It was difficult for Karigan to imagine Estora as a tiny child. Try as she might, she could only picture Estora as she was now, the stately, devastatingly beautiful woman.

  Karigan hopped to a wobbly rock in front of Ard, her legs quivering from exertion. Ard did not move, forcing Karigan to fight once again for her balance. He did not give her a hand, but instead appeared lost in reflection.

  “So kind she was,” he said. “Considerate to those beneath her station when she didn’t have to be. She didn’t change as she grew up. Always good to me. I’m proud to serve her.”

  This was all fascinating, Karigan thought, but her leg was killing her as she struggled to prevent herself from falling and dashing her brains all over the rocks.

  “Um,” she said, hoping Ard would take the hint.

  He gazed at her, his eyes chips of flint, his face set and body rigid. Karigan tensed in return. She did not understand his posture, or why he was not helping her.

  “Would you mind moving on?” she said. “We’re falling behind.”

  Ard did not move, but kept staring at her, tapping the hilt of his sword. “I’d do anything for her,” he murmured.

  Karigan hopped back to a more stable rock behind her, now holding the bonewood more in defense than for balance. What was wrong with him? His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

  “Is all well back here?” It was Telagioth.

  Karigan sighed in relief.

  “Aye,” Ard replied, and he turned toward Telagioth and strode off, leaving Karigan behind. “We were just resting is all.”

  Resting? Is that what he called it? Then why was she drenched in sweat and shaking?

  To her further relief, Telagioth stayed with them and Ard carried on an animated conversation. All seemed as it was before. Had she only imagined he’d posed a threat to her just moments ago? She could not even guess at his change. Until now he’d been nothing but helpful to her along the journey.

  Perhaps the poison of the thorns had muddled her perceptions. Even so, she intended to remain wary of Ard in case he showed his darker side again.

  REDBIRD

  “Very good,” Grandmother said when Lala showed her the knot of red yarn. “You have a natural knack for the art.”

  “Lalala goot!” cried Gubba. The old groundmite sat across the fire from them, beaming at them with a toothless grin.

  In the evenings when they paused in their journey through the forest, Grandmother had taken to teaching Lala more of the craft once taught to her by her own mother and grandmother. The protection provided by the groundmites had removed some of the responsibility from Grandmother, and it was now they who guided her and her people. The groundmites also provided them with fresh meat and water, and all of them were feeling the stronger for it. Such relative ease, compared to the beginnings of their journey, allowed Grandmother the leisure to teach Lala.

  If only Lala could speak. Without speech, many spells would prove inaccessible to her.

  Her granddaughter’s inability had always saddened her, but now it angered her. It was unfair. She wanted Lala to carr
y on the craft of her ancestors, to have a voice. When Grandmother finally surrendered her soul to God as all mortals must, who would carry on the art for Second Empire?

  There was also that music, the flow of an almost otherworldly voice that came into her mind sometimes, its source at the wall. It mocked her with its power and made Lala’s silence all the more difficult to accept. She had decided it was high time to do something about it. To lash out, as it were. So here they sat, Lala tying a very special knot.

  Grandmother appraised it critically, looking for imperfections, but it was well executed, with extra knots that were Lala’s personal expression. It was, after all, an art. The girl had the aptitude, and now Grandmother wished she’d done more with the girl sooner.

  “You understand the next step?” she asked.

  Lala nodded and picked up the knife from the blanket between them.

  “Remember to pour your intent into it.”

  Lala closed her eyes, looking much older than her years, even beneath the dirt smudged on her face. In one swift motion, she slashed the blade across her palm. Grandmother grabbed her wrist and pushed the knotted yarn into the wound so it would absorb the blood. Lala clenched her fingers around it. They could have used a nail clipping or a lock of Lala’s hair for the spell, but nothing was as potent as fresh blood.

  Grandmother spoke the words of power, words as ancient as the roots of the empire itself, her voice a singsong, and a red glow seeped between Lala’s fingers.

  Gubba, who was accustomed to the unpredictability of Blackveil’s etherea, chanted in counterpoint to buffer them from some devastating backlash.

  When Grandmother finished, the glow captured in Lala’s hand flickered red against her face like firelight.

  “You may release the seeker,” Grandmother said.

  Lala carefully uncurled her fingers, the glow blooming, then coalescing into a redbird perched on her bloody palm. The remnant glow settled into its feathers as it preened.

  The detail! Grandmother looked at it in awe. From its black face mask to its crest, it was every bit the real thing. The dear child had made more than a seeker—she’d taken the art to a higher level. The aesthetic alone revealed more sophistication than those so gifted showed in a lifetime. The art should not be just a tool, Grandmother thought. Too often she had used it as a means to an end, forgetting about its inherent beauty.