Mirror Sight (81 page)

I
t was the winter solstice. Night of Aeryc. Despite the lively music echoing through the banquet hall, and festive boughs of evergreens adorning the rafters and great hearth, the mood was subdued among the guests who feasted with King Zachary and Queen Estora.

Laren had eaten earlier with her Riders, a far more merry bunch than this lot, playing jokes on one another, singing, exchanging gifts, and dancing to simple tunes played on flute, fiddle, and drum. She could have ordered one of her Riders to attend the king this night, but they deserved a holiday, a little time off, and it was no hardship for her. She stood near the entrance to the banquet hall with a dozen or so attendants of various kinds, secretaries, aides, servants, all keeping watchful gazes on their masters and mistresses.

Outside a snowstorm lashed at the windows, which would no doubt put a damper on the midnight candle walk along the streets of Sacor City. Lights to illuminate the Longest Night. The view of the candlelit streets, from the castle walls and battlements, was a sight to see, but tonight those candles would not stay lit in such high winds. Anyone going out was apt to get frostbitten for their trouble. No, it was best to stay in and sip the traditional mulled wine, and nibble on sugary pastries, and place the lighted candles in windows.

She yawned, looking over the king and queen’s guests—local aristocrats and high-ranking officials mainly, some of the queen’s kin over-wintering in the city, and just a few lord- and lady-governors. The same winter weather that quelled battles with Second Empire also made ordinary travel difficult.

They sat at three long tables laden with holiday specialties. A fish chowder had just been served. King and queen sat at the head table, presiding with quiet dignity over the dinner.

Laren yawned again, earning a raised eyebrow from the Weapon, Fastion, who stood opposite her across the hall. It was the short days and long nights this time of year that got to her. They always made her sleepy. And it was just too . . . quiet. Not a bad thing, she supposed, especially with Queen Estora in her gravid condition. First pregnancies, so early on, could be precarious.

A mild commotion broke out at the entryway, and Laren perked up. She glanced at Zachary to ensure he did not need her, and went to the doorway where guards and the Weapon Donal were holding back a trio of cloaked travelers. Not just any travelers, she realized, but Eletians. Immediately she recognized their leader, Somial, and the two who had accompanied him before.

Somial’s eyes lit up when he saw her. “Ah. Captain Mapstone, it is well to see you.”

“We were not expecting you. The king is—”

“With deference to your gracious king,” Somial replied with a bow of his head, “we are not here for him.”

“Then what brings you? What do you wish of us?” Did he have another puzzling message for her to take down to the tombs?

“Merely to observe.”

“To observe? To observe what?”

Somial pointed back into the banquet hall. At first she did not notice anything unusual. Had the Eletians come to observe the humdrum rituals of nobles at their meal?

Then the lamplight wavered. The fire in the great hearth roared up the chimney and threw off a shower of sparks. Tapestries fluttered along the walls and the air compressed in her ears. This was no ordinary draft.

The guests looked around as their cloaks and skirts rippled around them. The usually stationary Weapons cast suspiciously about trying to identify the source of the disturbance.

Then the air fractured and disgorged something—
someone
—out of nothing on a frigid current, as frigid as the starry depths of the heavens themselves. He, no she, flew by in a blur, landing unceremoniously on the center table with such force that she slid down its length, smashing a bowl of late harvest apples, sending goblets of wine splashing on guests. Baskets of bread flew into the air along with utensils and crockery. Hot fish chowder landed on Lord Mirwell’s lap, and among the cries of shock and consternation of the guests, his shrieks were the most piercing.

Behind trailed a line of silvery shimmering . . . somethings. Laren could not seem to work her limbs or even her jaw. It was Karigan. This much she knew. Even if she couldn’t see her Rider’s face, only one person could make such an entrance.

Zachary, who must have realized the same, stood. The Weapons ran toward the table. While Karigan moved swiftly, the motion around her was stretched out, took too long to happen. Karigan’s slide finally halted and she sat up, shaking her head as though dazed. The shimmering silver particles followed her down the table. She flung her arm up to protect her face as they impacted her. Her cry rang out clear and shrill through the hall.

Even as time slowed the reaction of those around her, Karigan climbed to her feet, her hand over her eye, crimson trickling between her fingers. Her uniform blossomed with blood where silver was embedded in her flesh. She started running back down the table, and her boots, or what Laren had thought were boots, disintegrated off her feet and vanished. Her trousers frayed apart on one leg.

“No!” Karigan cried out. “Let me go back! I must go back for him!”

When she reached the end of the table, she leaped without hesitation as if expecting the frigid air currents to carry her back from whence she came.

It was Somial’s companion, Enver, who was quick enough to catch her as she plummeted.

Normal time resumed and the banquet hall was chaos, with screams of alarm and dismay echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Weapons and guards swarmed Enver and Karigan.

Laren shook herself out of the spell that had befallen her. “To the mending wing,” she ordered Fastion and Donal. “Get her to the mending wing!”

She would leave others to sort out the disruption in the banquet hall. She was about to run after the Weapons and the struggling Karigan who yelled at them to let her “go back,” when Zachary grabbed her arm. His eyes were wild. He was in shock. They all were.

“That is Karigan,” he said.

“Yes.”

“She came back. I knew she would. We must—”

Just then, a cry, a different cry from all the others, ripped through the hall. Queen Estora was doubled over in her chair. More Weapons and her maid came running.

Oh, no,
Laren thought. Zachary hesitated, looked torn. “Your place is with your wife and the child she bears,” she said. “Go to her now and get the castellan to calm your guests. I will report to you on Karigan’s condition just as soon as I can.”

“Yes.” This time he did not hesitate but strode directly toward Estora, issuing orders as he went.

Laren ran out into the corridor both elated by Karigan’s return, and sorely worried for Estora.

Karigan still struggled and fought against the Weapons who carried her away. All the way to the mending wing, she pleaded with them to let her “go back.”

Go back where? Where had she been all this time? She had entered Blackveil nine months past and vanished. How had she arrived in such . . . in such a fashion? The Eletians followed along in silence, revealing nothing. How had they known when and where to “observe” Karigan’s arrival?

Laren chose not to summon any of her Riders, not even Connly, Mara, or Elgin, in order to prevent an onrush of Karigan’s concerned friends to the mending wing. Word would reach them soon enough. Ben, her Rider-mender, was here on duty. She grabbed him and pointed ahead to where Fastion and Donal tried to restrain Karigan so that Master Mender Vanlynn could look her over. Despite Vanlynn’s soothing tones, she could not calm Karigan.

When Ben saw who needed his help, his mouth dropped open and he paled as though . . . as though he was looking at a ghost. Laren knew the feeling.

“Quiet her, lad,” Vanlynn ordered him. “We can’t help her while she struggles in this manner. She’s near crazed.”

Ben had learned a new facet of his special mending ability in the fall, and he used it now. He touched his finger to Karigan’s forehead, and she slumped in the arms of the Weapons. Ben’s touch would allow her to rest peacefully for a time, giving the menders an opportunity to examine and treat her. Perhaps when she woke, she’d be more herself.

Vanlynn hobbled over to Laren, leaning on her stick. The elder woman had come out of retirement to replace the former master mender.

“One of yours, eh?” Vanlynn said.

“Yes. She is—”

“I know who she is. My assistants will see to her. Meanwhile, I’ve been summoned to the queen’s quarters, and Ben with me. Your Rider will have to wait. Why they can’t bring the queen here is beyond me. Lord-Governor Mirwell will have to wait, too. He is apparently demanding my presence to treat the scalding of his nether parts. Ben!”

“Yes, Master Vanlynn.” He had a mender’s satchel over his shoulder. He glanced back with regret to where Karigan was being moved into a room. “I’ve got to go,” he told Laren.

“I know. The queen needs you.”

He nodded and hurried after his chief. His
other
chief.

Laren found a chair in a waiting alcove and sank into it. She had a feeling that the Longest Night was going to indeed be long. Elated, shocked, concerned—she did not know how to feel.

The Eletians followed her into the alcove, and she noticed Fastion and Donal taking watchful positions in the corridor outside. She was not sure whether it was because they were concerned about Karigan, or the manner of her return, or about the Eletians. Probably all of it.

“We shall keep vigil with you,” Somial announced.

“We have prepared ourselves,” Enver added.

“Prepared?” Laren asked incredulously. “Prepared for what?”

Enver, his face serious, removed a parcel from his pack. Laren saw a familiar sigil stamped on it. “Dragon Droppings,” Enver said, “from the master of chocolate.”

Laren thought perhaps it was time to make the candy-maker, Master Gruntler, an ambassador to Eletia.

Somial seated himself in the only other chair in the alcove, his two companions gracefully lowering themselves to the floor to sit cross-legged.

“What do you know of this?” Laren asked.

“Less than you may imagine,” he replied.

“Your less is more than my nothing.”

He conceded her point with a bow of his head. “As you may recall, one of our own, Lhean, who accompanied the expedition into Blackveil, never returned, as the Galadheon had not.”

“Of course.” It had been assumed, at least by the Sacoridians, that the two had perished in Blackveil.

“Lhean returned to us late this summer. He arrived in your city of Corsa.”

“Corsa? Where did he arrive from?”

“A piece of time almost two centuries hence. He had been held captive by the people of that time. There were no other Eletians, no Eletia.”

Laren shuddered from a sudden chill. “No Eletia?”

“A bleak thread of our story. Alas, Lhean could tell us little of that world, for not only was he a captive, but he mostly remained in . . . hmmm, you might call it torpor? to preserve himself. He did say he hid for a time among the ruins of this castle and city before he was captured.”

Laren was gripped by a sensation greater than a chill. It was colder, darker, the frigid exhalation of death.

“We believe Karigan will be able to explain much more,” Somial said, “for she was there, as well.”

Of course she was,
Laren thought. It would not be the first time Karigan had surpassed the boundaries of time.

“Why didn’t you come to us when Lhean returned?” And why hadn’t Lhean and Karigan arrived together? So many questions.

“He returned weakened and disoriented,” Somial replied. “And Prince Jametari had his own reasons, which he need not explain to his subjects.”

Laren narrowed her eyes. Eletian games.

A mender leaned into the alcove. “Captain? Your Rider is resting. We—” The mender faltered when she realized the others there were Eletians, not everyday visitors to the mending wing.

“Go on,” Laren said.

“We, uh, have checked her over, and aside from bruises and lacerations, her main injuries appear to be from broken mirror shards. We picked most of them out, though the one in her eye . . . it is difficult, so we are awaiting the return of Master Vanlynn and Ben.”

“Her eye? Will she—”

“I do not know, Captain. We’ll keep you informed. In the meantime, you may sit with her if you like.”

When Laren turned her gaze back to Somial, he had closed his eyes as though asleep. His companions spoke softly to one another in Eletian and shared Dragon Droppings.

She stood and headed toward the room where they were keeping Karigan. Broken mirror shards. Lynx, who had also been on the expedition into Blackveil and returned, had told how Karigan had received a looking mask in the midst of Castle Argenthyne and destroyed it to deny Mornhavon the Black its power. Where else could the mirror shards have come from?

Only Karigan could provide answers, but when Laren cracked the door open to look in on her Rider resting in the dimly lit room, she suspected it would be some while before they got any.

L
aren half-dozed in the chair next to Karigan’s bed, startled awake every few minutes by Karigan’s muttering and tossing. She had decided to sit with Karigan in case her Rider awoke, or said anything of where she’d been all this time, but all she heard was a name repeated:
Cade, Cade, Cade . . .

Karigan was under the influence of Ben’s sleeping touch, but it was not enough to give her peace, and the menders were reluctant to supplement it with some other additional soporific, fearing the combination would damage her in some way. Laren wished Ben and Vanlynn would return. She wished she’d hear news of Estora.

Laren herself had finally sent word to Connly down in the Rider wing about Karigan’s arrival. She very much wanted to send the news to Karigan’s father. From all accounts, hearing of his daughter’s death had been crushing, and rumors reached her of the merchant chief neglecting his business interests in his grief. He needed to know, but not before Laren could ensure Karigan was well, that she’d come back to them whole, nor could she send anyone out with a message while the storm raged.

Karigan tossed again and muttered some words that sounded like, “Let me go back.”

“Go back where, Karigan?” Laren asked quietly. “Who is Cade?”

Her questions were only met with silence as Karigan quieted beneath her covers. Her right eye was bandaged, and having few details on the injury, Laren hoped her Rider did not lose her eye or her sight. It would not be an easy transition for her, as it had not been for others Laren knew. She was aware of plenty of one-eyed soldiers who remained in uniform, on active duty, undeterred by their losses. Karigan likely would have no choice in the matter. If she still heard the call, she would remain a Rider. If her brooch abandoned her, she would leave the messenger service. Whatever happened, Laren was grateful to have her back alive.

She nodded off in her chair again and was not sure if she was dreaming or actually seeing the Eletian, Somial, standing over Karigan’s bed, his hands hovering over her sleeping form. Laren heard a wisp of soothing song, which almost lulled her into a deep slumber. Instead, she fought it, shaking herself into a groggy but awake state. She half-rose from her chair.

“What are you doing?” she demanded of Somial. If he harmed Karigan in some way, she would stop at nothing to defend her Rider.

“She was restless, her mind filled with urgency,” he replied softly. He turned his gaze at her, the dim lamplight odd in his eyes. “I have sung to her of peace. She rests quietly now.”

Laren scrutinized Karigan. Indeed, she slept tranquilly, her chest rising and falling with deep, regular breaths. “Is that all you did?” she asked, still suspicious.

“I sense in her an absence of . . .” He touched his belly. “There was a potential there that she carried, but even the faintest memory of it ever having existed has fallen to ashes.”

“A potential? In her? Oh!” Laren fought to shake off the persistent grogginess. “She was carrying a—?”

“Not precisely. The potential was there, the very earliest germination of a seed. The potential became unmade with her return. That which has yet to come to pass, cannot exist before its time.”

It was a challenge for Laren’s sleepy mind to work it out, but she thought she understood. Karigan had traveled before to the time of the First Rider, about one thousand years ago, and returned to the present with a knife of that era in pristine condition. Objects of the past, objects that existed previously, could come forward. Those yet to be created could not come to the past.

“Her return.” Somial sounded uncertain. “It is difficult to know its sway, if any, on the course of events.”

“Course of events?”

“There are many threads to the future, Captain, and clear to no one, not even Eletians. There are just too many variations.” With that, Somial departed, his feet silent on the stone floor.

He left Laren much to think about, not the least of which that Karigan had been, potentially, pregnant. A curious thing that, since female Riders did not become pregnant. Oh, they could after their brooches abandoned them, and they went on with their lives in the outside world. And some bore children before they were even called into the messenger service, though it was rare. But never while they were Riders. The belief that had come down the generations was that after the time of the First Rider, some magic had been instilled in the brooches to prevent pregnancy as a practicality.

Had Karigan been in a time and place that lacked magic?

She would not know until Karigan told her tale, but she had no doubt it would include heartbreak, and that this “Cade” had played a crucial part.

 • • • 

Morning light woke Laren again. She yawned and stretched muscles cramped by a night spent in a chair. She realized with a start that Karigan was no longer beneath the rumpled covers of her bed, but standing at the window peering through the frosty panes, her breaths fogging the glass.

“Karigan?” Laren rose, took a step forward.

Without turning, her Rider said, “How can it be winter? It was just summer.”

Before Laren could speak, the door opened, and Vanlynn entered. “Good morning,” the master mender said.

Karigan turned, the bandage over her eye once again taking Laren aback. Of course, Karigan would not know Vanlynn. “This is Master Mender Vanlynn,” Laren said, “who has taken over for Destarion.”

“We have already met,” Vanlynn said, “while you slept in your chair, Captain. It did not seem necessary to wake you.”

“Not necessary?” Laren demanded.

“No. Your Rider has had a cup of broth, and now I’d like to examine her.”

“But—”

“Please, Captain, if you would step outside. I will report to you when I’m done.”

Laren obeyed. Vanlynn was a bulwark of a mender and would not be countermanded, especially not in her own mending wing. It did not make Laren any less irritated.

Her irritation was somewhat ameliorated by an apprentice mender who brought tea and biscuits to the waiting alcove. Neither Fastion nor Donal remained. Either they’d been ordered out of the mending wing or had returned to their scheduled duties. Her Riders remained absent, as she requested. There was little to tell them anyway. Ben was nowhere to be seen, and she wondered if he was still with Estora, and how Estora fared as well as the child she carried. There were no Eletians in sight. Perhaps Fastion and Donal had escorted them away.

When Vanlynn eventually emerged from Karigan’s chamber, the master mender settled in a chair across from Laren. Tea was brought for her, too, and Laren noticed for the first time how tired the mender’s eyes looked. She must have had a long night. Being the master could not be an easy duty for one of her years.

Vanlynn told her that Karigan was in good form. She’d an old broken wrist and lacerations that had healed well some time ago. The newer lacerations from the mirror shards, she thought, should heal without problem.

“The only question is the eye,” Vanlynn said. “We removed a piece of mirror from it, but some particle remains. It irritates her, but she will not lose her eye.”

“What of her sight?” Laren asked.

Vanlynn sipped tea before answering. “I am unsure. I’d like to have Ben look at it after he recovers from his work with the queen.”

There was more that Vanlynn was not saying, but before Laren could pursue it, Vanlynn continued, “I would say right now the most difficult thing for your Rider is what’s going on in here.” She tapped her temple. “She is disoriented, and from what the Eletian said, it’s not at all surprising.”

“You spoke with the Eletian?” Laren demanded. That would teach her to doze off.

“Of course. He told me about your Rider’s travel to a future time.” Vanlynn said it like it was an everyday occurrence. “In any case, whatever befell her there occupies her a great deal. She will not speak to me of it as she does not know me. It will be up to her friends to draw her out, to listen. But for now, let her rest. She’s been through unknown trauma.”

At that, Vanlynn set her teacup aside and stood, abruptly ending the interview.

“What of the queen?” Laren asked before the mender could get away.

Vanlynn grinned. “The queen and the babies she carries are, thanks in no small part to Ben, just fine.”

“Babies?”

“Twins, Captain. She’s going to have twins.”

M
ara Brennyn headed toward the mending wing, assigned to keep an eye on Karigan for the time being. The captain wanted her to have a friend there to talk with, to be comforted as needed. Mara was one of Karigan’s best friends and agreed gladly to go. When Mara had been healing for so long from her burns, Karigan had been a frequent visitor, offering company and cheer. Now Mara would reciprocate.

She left the Rider wing abuzz with promises to bring greetings and well wishes from many of her fellow Riders. After Karigan had been declared dead four months ago, a new Rider had been given her room, so now the Riders threw their energy into clearing out the cobwebs from another chamber. Garth, back from the D’Yer Wall for a time, had taken charge, hunting for furnishings in obscure storerooms of the castle. Mara was all too glad to escape the dust and labor.

The news that Queen Estora was expecting twins was like adding cream on the pudding. They all deserved some good news.

Speaking of good news, Mara decided, as she wove her way through corridors busy with holiday revelers, that she would not tell Karigan the news of battles, of Riders who had died, about Estral Andovian’s loss of speech, or that Estral’s father, the Golden Guardian of Selium, was missing. No, that sort of news could wait. Unless Karigan specifically asked, of course. Mara would not lie to her.

When she reached the mending wing, she found its halls filled with the scent of healing herbs and the atmosphere hushed. It was something of a sanctuary, although, when she was here for so long while being treated for her burns, she’d thought of it more as a prison.

“Are you looking for Rider G’ladheon?” an apprentice asked.

“Yes,” Mara replied.

“Fifth door on the right.”

“Thank you. How is she doing?”

“I believe she is doing well. Earlier, she requested a pen, ink, and paper.”

That was good, Mara thought. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d find when she saw Karigan, but requesting writing implements sounded ordinary and reassuring. Perhaps she wanted to write to her father.

But when she entered Karigan’s room, she saw how very wrong she was. The papers were scattered around, dark with ink. Apparently the paper had not been enough, for Karigan had written on her arm, her nightgown, the bed sheets, and was adding words to the wall.

“Karigan?” Mara said from the doorway. “What are you—?”

Karigan turned. The bandage over her eye was disconcerting, though not as disconcerting as seeing her covered in her own writing.

“Mara?” Karigan hurried over and halted, her one eye darting about. She raised an ink-stained hand to touch Mara’s face—the side scarred by flame.

“What are you doing?” Mara asked. She needed to get a mender in here. Her friend had gone mad.

“Burned face,” Karigan murmured. “Fastion. Fastion had a burned face.” She hurried back to the wall to write on it some more.

Mara followed her. Much of it was ordinary writing—lists, names, places, but a certain amount was garbled with odd symbols, almost as if from some unknown language.

“Karigan, what is all of this?”

“
Enmorial.
Memory, before it all fades. Before it’s unmade.” She scribbled on the wall and snapped the nib. “Damnation.”

That sounded more like Karigan, but then she started pacing in a circle. “Cade, Cade, Cade,” she muttered.

Mara did not know whether to shake Karigan or slap her. She was about to fetch a mender when Karigan halted and looked up. “I need to tell them!”

Before Mara could stop her, Karigan ran, ran right past her and down the corridor, ink-blotched nightgown fluttering around her.