First Rider's Call (51 page)

She smelled smoke, and tore her eyes from the wraith. An orange glow flooded the pasture side of barracks.

A howl sounded from within. The dark one stopped its advance and threw its head back and loosed a scream in answer. Laren scrunched her eyes closed and covered her ears, trying to block the sound.

When the cry died, she opened her eyes. The wraith was gone.

Flames poked through the roof of barracks, smoke pouring out black and thick.

She had stood frozen in place with her fear of the wraith, but now she shook it off—barracks was burning.

Glass smashed on the pasture side of the building. Laren ran toward the sound and found a figure on the ground, trying to get up, and falling back down. It was on fire.

Laren tore off her cloak as she ran to aid the—it was a woman. A Green Rider? Karigan?

A Rider, yes, Laren saw. Mara, not Karigan.

Mara crawled atop glass shards that shimmered in a golden, fractured reflection of the fire. The Rider was on fire, and it was spreading.

Laren threw her cloak on Mara to smother the flames.

A Weapon appeared, running down the corridor. He spoke rapidly with the woman presently guarding the king.

“What is it?” the king asked.

At once the Weapons started hustling him down the corridor. “Trouble on the castle grounds, sire.”

“Come, Lady Estora,” the first Weapon commanded.

Another Weapon appeared from nowhere, as they were apt to do, and shepherded Estora down the corridor after King Zachary.

Before long she found herself in the west wing, in the private apartments of the king, being escorted past all the portraits of Sacoridia’s monarchs; the very place she had wished to avoid.

“I want to know what is happening,” King Zachary informed the third Weapon as he strode toward his apartments.

“Yes, sire. We shall tell you when we know more.”

As Estora followed the king into his inner sanctum, Weapons appeared from the very cracks and corners of the corridor, falling in behind to provide a rear guard. She peered over her shoulder and counted twelve, then thirteen, and fourteen. Thick pile carpet silenced their purposeful strides.

“Come, my lady,” the Weapon who escorted her said in a firm but courteous tone. She cupped her elbow in her hand to hurry her along.

Soon they spilled into the king’s parlor. Four Weapons remained inside with them, quickly taking places along opposite walls. The others withdrew, closing the thick doors as they did so. The king helped her into a comfortable armchair. Finally she allowed herself to take a couple of deep breaths.

The king sat opposite her, crossing his long legs. He tapped his fingers on his armrest. The terrier laid down obediently at his feet.

“I’ve felt uneasy all evening,” he murmured, “as though something were about to happen.”

A sleepy-eyed servant brought them some steaming tea. Estora sipped hers gratefully, feeling weary. It had turned into a long night and the energy that had sent her strolling around the castle in the first place was thoroughly drained.

It was quiet in the king’s parlor, except for the occasional panting of the terrier. The thick stone walls and heavy doors muted all else. Caught up in his own thoughts, the king stared into his teacup as if he could divine what was occurring outside.

Estora’s mother would be appalled she didn’t initiate some form of polite conversation to distract the king from his worry.
It is an art form,
her mother had explained. Estora’s father in turn would be furious she didn’t use this opportunity to cultivate the king’s interest with her charm. King Zachary, however, did not strike her as the sort of man to put up with such inane chatter.

No, not the way he sat engrossed in his own thoughts. He would not take kindly to an intrusion just now.

Instead, she kept her peace, taking in her surroundings. The last time she had been in the west wing with her cousin, they had visited the king in a different, more formal parlor.

This one was remarkable for its lack of armament as decor. Over the hearth hung a maritime scene—not a battle, but a fully rigged ship with sails bent in a rigorous sea. Another painting depicted a scene of Hillander terriers at hunt. She always imagined men of power displaying warlike ornament throughout their private quarters as well.

Battle tapestries sewn by the nimble and graceful hands of ladies.
Her own needlework was very fine and precise.

She liked the king’s private parlor, with its heavy leather chairs and the dark colors and hunting scenes, but it still seemed odd that it lacked weaponry or any hint of Zachary’s position as king.

Then she recalled her own father’s manor house. All the public areas frequented by visitors did exhibit the usual display of power. Yet he allowed her mother to govern the family quarters. There was only a hint of battle in the decor when some ancestor figured in a prominent way.

King Zachary smiled as he noticed her wandering gaze. “Has something caught your eye?”

“No. Well, actually, yes. You’ve no shields or swords hanging about.”

He patted his leg and the terrier leaped onto his lap. He scratched the dog’s belly, much to its evident delight. “You should have seen it during my grandmother’s reign.” He rolled his eyes. “The place looked like an armory.”

Estora had been too young to remember much about Queen Isen, but she had heard stories about the strong-willed woman.

“I prefer things that do not remind me of war.” He fell silent, rubbing the dog more thoughtfully. “I guess I surround myself with things that remind me of why I continue in my role as king.”

She looked more closely at the room. Fine glass vases from Oldbury Province adorned the mantel. One was filled with seashells from the coast. A wall hanging depicted the hills that gave Hillander Province its name. As she looked more closely, she found examples of artistry from numerous provinces, or expressions of those provinces in one form or another. This was a man who truly took pride in his homeland.

Estora had known this about the king, of course. She had seen him ready to sacrifice his own life to preserve Sacoridia. She simply had not expected to see it manifest in such an artful way.

A knock preceded the entrance of a Weapon, who knelt before the king.

“Report,” Zachary said.

“Excellency, an intruder—some say two—slipped onto the castle grounds, slaying three soldiers to get in. The guard is mobilized here and in the city, searching. We’re also searching the castle.”

“This is terrible,” the king murmured. “You will give me word when the intruders are captured?”

“Yes, Excellency.” The Weapon hesitated before adding, “There’s more.”

King Zachary raised an eyebrow. “More?”

“Yes. Rider barracks is burning.”

The terrier jumped to the floor as Zachary stood, his expression incredulous. Estora stayed her seat as though turned to stone.

“It cannot be saved,” the Weapon said, “and at least one Rider burns within.”

SPURLOCK

Weldon Spurlock had worked very late this night, though not as long as some of his clerks to whom he gave extra files as he left. They were not permitted to retire for the night until they completed the tasks he had set for them.

When he stepped onto the castle grounds, instead of finding the usual sleepy, quiet atmosphere he was accustomed to, he found soldiers running this way and that shouting into the night, bearing torches or lanterns and weaponry. It was like watching hundreds of crazed, oversized fireflies darting about. Had invaders marched on the castle?

He heard words of a fire, and smelled smoke upon the air. Dodging soldiers, he drifted in the direction of the most frenzied shouting, and the smoke thickened noticeably. Before he was even upon Rider barracks, he could see the flames shooting out the windows and quickly consuming the aged wood.

He was surprised the thing hadn’t burned down years ago. After all, it would have taken only a careless moment with a candle, and there you were. He snorted in contempt.

Before he was coerced into joining the bucket brigade, he scuttled out of the way of all the activity, cursing that his clothing would be replete with the stench of smoke. He’d have to air it out best he could in his cramped room down in the city. More soldiers loaded down with buckets ran past as he grumbled about the inconvenience of smoky garments.

Then death stepped from shadow. It dropped the stabbed corpse of a guard. Its dead eyes seized on Spurlock, and advanced on him.

“I seek the Galadheon.”

Spurlock’s insides liquefied. His tongue became too big for his mouth. He thought he was probably going to faint, hopefully before the thing killed him.

“I seek the Galadheon.”

Spurlock’s scrambled mind processed the statement, but barely. It was looking for that Rider?

“M-m-message errand,” he said. “G-gone. Pl-please don’t kill me.”

The creature’s expression did not alter. It simply raised its knife for the death blow.

“No!” Spurlock cried. He raised his hands and averted his face from the blade. Where were all those soldiers when he needed them?

When the blow didn’t come, Spurlock peered back at the creature. It was gazing at the palm of his hand.

“Lord Mornhavon’s sigil,” the creature said in its flat voice.

Spurlock looked at his tattoo as if seeing it for the first time. The wraith was looking for the
Galadheon,
not the G’ladheon. It occurred to him that this creature might have actually come from Blackveil.

Gathering his courage, he licked his lips and said in the imperial tongue,
“Urn oren veritate?”
Where do you come from?

“The north,” it replied.

Spurlock shook at its icy tone, but it had understood him. On impulse, he withdrew his ancestral medallion from beneath his collar.

“I—I support the empire. My ancestor—he was a general and—”

To his astonishment, the creature had gone to its knee with head bowed.

“Command me,” it grated.

Just like that?
He thought of a few junior clerks he’d like to introduce to this creature, and—Then he recognized the crown on its head. He had seen sketches of it in the records he protected for Second Empire.

“You are, er, were, Varadgrim,” he said, “Lord of the North.”

“Command me.”

How extraordinary. This creature had been one of Emperor Mornhavon’s own lieutenants, one among the four Sacor Clan lords he had recruited to his side. And now it was bowing to him?

Spurlock’s head raised a little higher, and he smiled. It was as it should be. Yes, he was meant to be a leader, he was meant to usher in a new era where the empire reigned again.

“You must tell me,” he said, “how my people and I can bring about the arising of the glory of the empire.”

The answer was not what he expected. “Bring the Galadheon. To Blackveil. To our master.”