Blackveil

  From there, Ealdaen explained, they could travel north and retrace their way along the trail they’d used to get here.

  The Eletians maintained a severe pace. Yates and Lynx took turns supporting Karigan as she hopped and limped along, but invariably she and whoever was helping her fell behind. Now and then Telagioth or Lhean would trot back to see how they were faring.

  Around and around they went, only to enter counter curves, circling in new directions. The architecture was impossible. Were they getting anywhere?

  “This castle is making me dizzy,” Yates muttered more than once.

  They passed through numerous chambers, but never paused to look. Karigan perceived fleeting impressions of flowing sculptures, dry fountains, clusters of furniture, but it all ran together. Sometimes they skirted clumps of bone and fabric and broken weaponry on the floor. The walls retained their inner glow, though they’d grown more dusky, perhaps with the advent of night, or because Laurelyn was truly gone.

  Karigan started stumbling so much that both Lynx and Yates needed to support her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Her mind felt numb, but the pain of her leg burned intensely.

  “You need rest,” Lynx said. “We all do, but Ealdaen fears the remaining Sleepers will regain entry to the castle either at the grove or somewhere else and come after us.”

  “Seems safer in here than out in the forest,” Yates said.

  But as they entered another chamber, they found the Eletians waiting for them, and it was a good thing for Karigan’s legs gave out altogether—she could no longer make them support her weight. Lynx and Yates lowered her to the floor, and Lynx placed his pack behind her so she’d have something to lean against.

  “She can’t go on like this,” Lynx told the Eletians.

  Karigan did not hear the rest of the conversation for she fell sound asleep where she sat.

  She awoke to the ghostly light of the castle. Someone had draped a blanket over her. Lynx and Yates snored nearby, but she heard the singsong murmur of the Eletians as an undertone to her sleeping companions. She lifted her head and saw the three Eletians sitting cross-legged on the floor together, carrying on a conversation in their own tongue.

  The tower chamber they were in was far more vast than any of the others they’d passed through. Subtle crosscurrents breathed freshening air across her face. Three large portals, and several smaller doorways yawned around the chamber’s circumference. In the chamber’s center rose a giant tree carved of stone with leaves of silver that fluttered and flashed in the air currents. Roots sank into the floor, or seemed to.

  “Do you like the tree?” Ealdaen asked, having broken off his conversation with Telagioth and Lhean to gaze at her.

  “It’s amazing,” she said.

  “A gift from King Santanara long before war came to us.”

  “What is this place?” Karigan asked.

  “The core of Castle Argenthyne, its nexus, the meeting of the ways.”

  She peeled off the blanket and shivered in the cool air. She tried to rise, and found it difficult with both a bad leg and a bad wrist. Lhean hurried over with silent steps and helped her up.

  “Should you not rest more?” he inquired. “It is the middle of the night.”

  “I will, but I’ve got to, um . . .”

  “Ah. I understand. Do you require assistance?”

  The idea of the Eletian helping her to relieve her bladder mortified her. “Er, no, thank you,” she hastily replied.

  With the aid of the bonewood, she limped for the nearest corridor and found an alcove in which to take care of her need. When she returned to the chamber, she felt herself lured to the tree. Some of the leaves had fallen from their branches and shone brightly on the floor. An elbow where root met trunk cradled an ovoid sphere of silver. Drawn to it, like a crow to a shiny object, she approached carefully. She saw her reflection in it.

  “It can’t be,” she murmured.

  “What is it?” Ealdaen asked.

  She jumped, not having heard his approach from behind her, or that of Lhean and Telagioth.

  “What’s going on?” It was Lynx, his voice crusty with sleep. Both he and Yates were sitting up.

  “Karigan has found something,” Ealdaen replied.

  Karigan was almost afraid to touch the thing, but she picked it up, a looking mask. She couldn’t believe it. It had weight in her hand, appeared solid in every way. There was her face reflected back at her, with the Eletians gazing over her shoulders, all warped by the convex shape of the mirror.

  “When I chose . . .” she began. “I didn’t think . . . I don’t understand.” She had told them about the white world and her experiences there before they’d left the chamber of the moondial.

  “King Santanara was correct when he called your tumbler a trickster,” Ealdaen said. “You must have pleased him. Handle this object with care.”

  “I didn’t want any of the masks,” Karigan said, “but I had to choose.” She rotated the mask in her hand and there were reflections upon reflections, a mosaic of silver leaves mirroring into infinity.

  Lynx and Yates had risen, and now crossed the chamber to join them.

  “Karigan always gets the good stuff,” Yates said. “First the bonewood, and now this.”

  Karigan ignored him. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “Whatever you decide to do with it,” Ealdaen said, like an echo of King Santanara, “choose carefully.”

  She was curious as to what the inside of the looking mask was like. How could one see through it? She had no wish to wear it—that seemed a dangerous thing to do—but she couldn’t help being curious.

  When she wondered how to open the mask, a hairline seam appeared around its circumference as if in answer, the two halves subtly parting like a clam shell. She licked cracked lips and lifted the faceplate. It moved on hidden hinges.

  The interior of the mask was mirrored, as well. There was no cushioning or straps to help support it on the wearer’s head. It sang to her, implored her to wear it. She lifted the mask so she could gaze through the faceplate, and when she did, she almost dropped the mask. With a flick of her wrist, the faceplate swung closed with a distinct click and the seams vanished.

  “What did you see?” Ealdaen asked.

  Karigan’s heart thrummed. “The universe,” she whispered.

  Just then a wind roared through one of the arched portals, the castle seeming to shriek, snatching leaves from the tree, the rest raging like thrusting daggers. One clipped Karigan’s cheek as it flew off the tree. Warm blood flowed. The walls of the chamber dimmed, the castle stricken.

  Karigan knew why, she knew what had changed. She’d borne Mornhavon the Black within her. She knew his feel. A sickening pall draped over her. Finally, their timeline had merged with his. She had not taken him far enough into the future.

  She turned to Ealdaen. “It’s—”

  “I know,” he replied.

  Just as suddenly as the maelstrom had begun, it ceased. The remaining leaves on the tree clattered and chimed against one another. Those strewn across the floor looked like the shards of a shattered mirror.

  Karigan peered around the chamber trying to perceive Mornhavon. He was there, but well-cloaked.

  “What’s wrong?” Lynx asked. “What happened?”

  “Mornhavon the Black is here,” Karigan replied, still unable to pinpoint him. He lacked a physical form of his own, but he could use others. She squinted at her companions, but they all gazed fearfully over their shoulders.

  “Perhaps we should leave,” Lhean said.

  “There is no running from him,” Ealdaen replied. “He is the master of the forest.”

  “So we just wait?”

  Karigan’s mind raced with possibilities. Maybe she could bear Mornhavon into the future again, let him inside her as before. She almost sobbed, remembering the violation of it. How would she move forward in time without the aid of the First Rider? Could she return to the moondial an
d move him to a piece of time in the future? Were the moondials able to do that, or did they only go to the past? If she could cross thresholds, surely she should be able to—

  “Can I look at the mask?” Yates asked.

  “What?”

  “The looking mask. I was just wondering if I could have it for a moment.”

  “I don’t think this is the time.” But she felt strangely compelled to let him have it. She took one step toward him, and then another. He reached out to receive it. “No,” she said, but her resistance crumbled and she took another step.

  She glanced at the mask and saw Yates’ reflection in it, the black, cloudy aura hovering around him. “Oh, Yates,” she murmured and put her will into resisting him.

  “GIVE ME THE MASK.” All pretension fell away. Yates’ posture changed, an inferno burned in his eyes. His cheeks flushed.

  Karigan fought the compulsion, fought with herself to stand still. She heard swords drawn from sheaths.

  “No,” she told the others “Attacking him will not work.”

  “That is correct,” Mornhavon said in Yates’ voice, but without his inflection. There was no humor, no lightness. Only cruelty. “I will give this Green Rider back to you if you give me the mask.”

  “Don’t do it,” Lynx said. “Yates wouldn’t want you to.”

  “It would not be wise,” Ealdaen added.

  “THE MASK. GIVE IT TO ME.”

  Karigan closed her eyes. Tears ran down her face. She recalled what she had seen when she’d looked through the faceplate of the mask—all the stars, like the lights of celestial cities. She’d seen millions of threads, as the Eletians called them, some as fleeting as the glowing tails of comets, others solid, luminous chains. They were the possibilities and variables of individuals, of entire worlds, far too much for her to take in. If she’d the control, she could tinker with the threads, change outcomes, change whole worlds, past, present, future.

  It was the realm of the gods, and she could not wear the mask. Too much power, too much influence and responsibility, a path to madness.

  Mornhavon must have known what the mask was the moment he saw it, and now he coveted it. She knew he’d use the mask like a puppet master, pulling strings and rearranging the workings of the universe to his own liking.

  Mornhavon as a god. She shuddered.

  He hadn’t tried to force it from her. Perhaps it must be freely given, as it had been to her. Maybe Yates resisted him from somewhere deep inside. She opened her eyes. He stood before her. The semblance of her friend was only on the surface. Sweat poured down his face.

  What remained of Yates? Her friend the jester, the pursuer of women, the skilled artist and cartographer? The Rider whose courage had not faltered even when he was blind and stumbling in Blackveil? She had seen threads when she peered through the mask.

  Yates . . .

  Mornhavon as a god.

  Herself as a god. She held the power in her hand.

  “You want this?” Karigan said, holding the mask above her head. She knew the Eletians were poised to strike her with their swords should she try to hand the mask over to Mornhavon.

  “Yes, yes. GIVE IT TO ME.”

  Through the mask, Karigan had seen endless possibilities for this one moment, the weaving and unweaving of infinite luminous strands. The decision was hers, and hers alone. Everything came down to what she did next.

  “Here it is,” she replied.

  With every ounce of strength remaining to her, she slammed the mask onto the floor at Mornhavon’s feet. It shattered into thousands of silver pieces. Threads snapped and unraveled, and the universe rushed out.

  AN AWKWARD SITUATION

  Richmont was surprised by the summons borne to him by the Green Foot runner. His cousin had done what she could to keep her distance from him since the night he had witnessed the rite of consummation. It mattered not, for he was still solidifying his position among the nobles. Most were grateful to make his acquaintance, knowing he had the ear of the new queen and could grant favors or deny them.

  And now the lord-governors were beginning to arrive, having learned of the sudden wedding. They demanded audiences with Estora and Zachary. Formal requests had been refused, and Richmont knew Zachary had not fully reawakened. The assassination attempt was not discussed, and no one was led to believe Zachary was in anything but good health. Mostly Colin Dovekey dealt with the lord-governors, but Richmont insinuated himself into their good graces by promising to mention their wishes personally to the king and queen.

  He’d been speaking with Lord-Governor Adolind and making his promise when the runner arrived with the summons.

  “You see?” Richmont said to Adolind. “I can give the queen your request straightaway.”

  Adolind half-bowed, deeply gratified. That was how Richmont wanted it—Sacoridia’s powerful indebted and bowing to him. He strolled through the castle corridors at his ease, not hastening his steps, though he was curious to know what Estora wanted with him. He would not give her the satisfaction, however, of answering her summons like an eager dog.

  When finally he reached the royal apartments he was ushered directly into Zachary’s chamber. He absently took in a mender touching Zachary’s forehead and a servant on her knees sweeping up ashes at the hearth.

  A Weapon stood just within the door, and another on the balcony outside the glass doors looking for trouble from without. Estora stood at the foot of the bed, hands clasped in front of her, attired in a creamy gown and resembling one of the classical sculptures decorating the more important rooms in the castle, even with the mourning shawl she still wore over her shoulders. She gave the slightest nod of dismissal and the mender removed himself from the room. The Weapon stepped just outside the door.

  Interesting, Richmont thought. It was to be a private meeting.

  “You sent for me?” Richmont asked.

  “I did.”

  “Is it the king? Is he failing?” Richmont could not conceal the eagerness in his voice.

  “He is holding his own.”

  Richmont stepped closer, a smile curling his lips. “No more reenactments of the rite of consummation?”

  “That is between my husband and myself.”

  Richmont took yet another step closer, closer than propriety permitted. “Anything,” he said very quietly, but distinctly, “that pertains to you and your royal marriage shall be known to me. All the intimate details, everything, should I wish it. As you know, I can acquire anything I like whether you tell me or not.”

  “Because of your informants,” Estora said, “because of those you’ve bribed or threatened.”

  Richmont had expected the coldness in her voice, but the rest of her remained composed, oddly relaxed. He felt a warming in his loins at her defiance, rather a surprise since he had not entertained fantasies about using her body for his pleasure since she was a child. Perhaps he was seduced by the power Estora had married into and aroused by the thought of breaking that defiant streak in her, of breaking her. He’d stayed away from her and her sisters to retain his good standing with Lord Coutre, but Lord Coutre was dead and gone and of no use to him now.

  Swiftly he calculated the advantages and disadvantages of various possibilities.

  “I asked you here,” Estora said, “hoping you would recant all that you said to me that night, and that you would gracefully resign yourself from your self-ascribed position as my advisor. I wish you removed from my court.”

  Richmont laughed. How courageously, how naively she spoke. How he would enjoy the breaking of her, savor it. “After all I told you about what I could do to your reign, how I could bring down your sister in Coutre and ruin your father’s name? After all my work you expect me to gracefully bow away without my due reward?”

  He grabbed her wrist and drew her close. She did not fight him. He wished she would. “You are no more than a whore,” he told her in a harsh whisper, “used to breed the new king. You shall not be rid of me. In fact, I see an even greater fu
ture for myself. For instance, if the king’s condition should take a change for the worse.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “It would be easy enough to arrange, and with whom would you replace him? Oh yes, the queen would need a suitable husband.”

  “Are you suggesting—”

  “Suggesting? No, my dear, I’m telling you that I would be your husband. I would be king.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” came a voice from the bed.

  Richmont’s heart thudded. He dropped Estora’s wrist and stepped away. “W-what? My lord? Did you speak?”

  Zachary rose up onto his elbows, his cheeks hollow, but his gaze stern. “You heard me.” His voice was not at all weak.

  Blood drained from Richmont’s face as he thought furiously of what to say, what to do. How much had Zachary heard? How long had he been awake? Estora did not look the least bit surprised by his wakefulness. She must have known and kept his true condition a secret from him. But how was this managed? It was a trap, yes, a trap.

  “This is a most wonderful surprise, Your Majesty,” Richmont said. “To see you looking so well.”

  “An unhappy surprise for you since you were indicating you’d prefer my demise,” the king said. “I heard every word, and have been told even more.”

  “Then you know what will happen if you do anything to me. It’ll be the downfall of your reign.”

  “What I know,” Zachary said forcefully, “is that I hereby strip you of all titles and privileges, and that shall be the least of my judgments upon you.”

  Rage, blinding as a stroke of lightning, surged through Richmont. He would tear Zachary down, Estora would become his slave, and all of Sacoridia his plaything. He drew a dagger from beneath his cloak. He would show them, but before he could more than imagine plunging the blade into Zachary’s gut, someone grabbed his wrist and his fingers went numb. The dagger dropped to the carpet. Gray ash dust drifted from the hand that held him.