First Rider's Call (68 page)

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.

They were children of the empire, and no matter Lord Mornhavon’s desire to build a new empire here, something stirred in their blood as though they caught a scent or flavor of a far distant land. One day, they would return to the land of their origin, to Arcosia.
He
would return. In his mind’s eye, he could see the fine art and architecture of a highly cultured people, the lemon trees heavy with fruit, the furrowed fields of the rolling countryside. He would ask why the empire stranded them in these alien lands.

The upstart king of Sacoridia would be no match for the power Spurlock imagined must be awakening in Blackveil. That awakening would bring about the deliverance of the children of the empire.

The door to the blockhouse creaked open.

“I’ve brought supper for the prisoners.”

Spurlock straightened when he recognized the voice.
Madrene!
Had she come with some plan of escape?

“Mmm, looks good,” the guard said.

There was a slap of a hand, followed by, “Those are for the prisoners. When your shift changes, you’ll get yours.”

The guard made a disappointed noise, clomped over to the cells and opened Uxton’s first. Madrene slid a tray into the cell, and Uxton sprang upon it like an animal.

The cell door clattered shut and the keys jingled as the guard locked it. Spurlock was next, and Madrene took the tray from the boy that accompanied her. Was it her son? Spurlock couldn’t keep track of everyone’s brats.

She slid the tray into his cell and backed out with a curt nod to him, and a knowing wink. And left.

Spurlock wondered at her nonverbal message. Was it an acknowledgment the sect knew of his imprisonment and would work on a way to get him out?

He left his cot and retrieved the tray. She had brought a succulent stew of beef and vegetables, with bread. He ate absently, wondering how she passed herself off as a kitchen worker, shrugged it off, and daydreamed of Arcosia.

Eventually his spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, and as he raised his spoon for his last bite, Uxton suddenly dropped his tray and clutched his throat, making a terrible wheezing sound. His face began to turn blue.

Spurlock dropped his spoon. “Uxton! Are you choking?”

But Uxton could not answer. His eyes rolled back into his head and he keeled over.

Even as the guard strode over to investigate, Spurlock knew the awful truth: Uxton was dead. Madrene had poisoned them before they could do too much harm to Second Empire.

As his chest tightened and he could not get a breath in or out, he realized it was a decision he would have made had it been someone other than himself in this cell. He wouldn’t have hesitated to poison that person for the good of the whole, for the good of Second Empire. They had survived this long out of secrecy, by similar acts done in the past.

His lungs felt as though they would explode, and he clawed at his throat with one hand, the other gripping his ancient medallion. As awareness dimmed, a tear leaked from the corner of his eye because he would never see the attainment of his dreams, nor the shore of his forebear’s homeland.

ARGUING WITH HORSES

Karigan left the castle feeling like one freed from a prison. She had spent far too much time in the mending wing this summer.

Once she stepped clear of the castle’s shadow, gentle sunshine enveloped her. She paused on the pathway, closed her eyes, and turned her face skyward to absorb the sun. It helped warm the last of the chill from her veins, just as the snow in the castle corridors had finally melted away.

Her memory of the previous two days and nights were vague. She did recall the attack of armor clearly, the bruises and aching muscles a painful reminder. She also recalled being pursued into the corridors through the snow, and returning to the past to Lil’s time. To Lil’s . . . death?

Had Lil survived to fight on, or had Karigan shared the last moments of her life with her?

She ambled along, not sure of where she was going and not caring. She just needed to be out in the sun. Dimly she recalled a nightmare. About spiders? Ben had heard her scream, but the images from the dream were gone.

Her feet led her to the pasture where several messenger horses cropped at the grasses. Standing among them in the center of the field was a Rider. Karigan shielded her eyes to see better who it was.

“It can’t be . . .”

The Rider shifted her stance, and with the way the sun slanted onto her red hair, there was no mistaking her identity.

“Captain.” She wanted to shout, but it came out as a whisper.

She stepped between the rails of the fence and into the pasture. She took a few strides, and stopped, hesitant. The captain would be angry with her, she thought, for all those accusations she had made. She felt a blush of shame creep up her neck.

Captain Mapstone just stood there watching the horses, or maybe gazing at nothing, as the tips of grasses glimmered at her knees and insects hovered in little clouds around her. In the distance, Karigan could hear the horses pulling at grass and munching. Bluebird grazed close to the captain, his coat glossy in the sunshine.

Karigan thought to retreat from the tranquil scene, to not intrude on the captain’s peace. She feared her reception and didn’t think she could face the captain’s anger. The shame would be too much to bear.

Before she could leave, however, the captain glanced over her shoulder and saw her. The two gazed at one another for an endless moment, until the captain smiled. She
smiled!

Karigan thought she might swoon in relief, especially when the captain started walking toward her.

“So Destarion released you,” she said.

There was color in the captain’s cheeks, gaunt though they were. She was too thin and there were hollows beneath her eyes. But the eyes were bright and snapping, full of life. The last time Karigan had seen her, those very same eyes had been dull and pain-filled.

“Yes.”

“How are you feeling?” the captain asked.

“Captain, I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?”

Karigan thrust a strand of hair behind her ear. “The things I accused you of. I shouted at you, and you weren’t well. I don’t know what got into me. I—”

“That’s true enough.” The captain gazed off into the distance for a moment, stroking the scar on her neck, as if recalling the unpleasantness. “However, I left you and Mara in a very difficult situation. In fact, more difficult than usual, and I would have to say you’ve done very well under the circumstances.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’ve never seen the Rider accounts look so good.”

Karigan glanced down at her feet, glad of the captain’s approval.

“In fact,” the captain mused, “I don’t see why handling Rider accounts shouldn’t be one of your permanent duties.”

Karigan stifled a groan.

“Were I you,” the captain continued, “I’m not sure I’d have done so well with all you had to contend with, especially at your level of experience. Yes, I was ill, but you were correct to seek help from me.”

“But the accusations, the shouting—”

“I wish they had shaken me from the despair, but that took a different kind of intervention.” The captain smiled slightly. “I also know the kind of strain you were under at the time. Think no more of it.”