Firebrand Page 3

  Karigan’s throat constricted and she fought back tears. “That is far better than I deserve.”

  Estral wrote, It’s called friendship.

  They hugged, cried, and laughed together, and agreed to forget any regrettable behavior of the past.

  When once more they were settled, Estral took up her slate. The chalk tip-tap-tapped as she wrote, So good to see you. Was worried—Blackveil, you dead. She then pointed at her own eye to indicate Karigan’s patch, her expression full of questions. She wrote, Tell me everything. Got only pieces at wall.

  Estral may have lost her voice, but her curiosity remained intact.

  “It’s a very long story,” Karigan said. Or was it? She remembered so very little, at least about her time in the future, just fragments from notes she had made after her return to the castle. There were some details and people she could picture quite clearly, thanks to drawings made for her by the ghost of Yates Cardell, but to give a linear tale of her adventures? The part about Blackveil, maybe, but not so much about what had come after.

  As for her eye, with a shard of the looking mask lodged in it, it was its own long story.

  “We can talk about that later,” Karigan added. “Right now I’m more worried about you. Why in the bloody hells are you traveling in this weather?”

  Estral wrote furiously on her slate. Father missing too long. No word. Very worried.

  “The king has all his Riders keeping their eyes and ears open.” Karigan glanced at the frosty window. Of course, few Riders had gotten out on errands between storms. “Word has also been passed from garrison to garrison. You don’t think he’s with your mother?” Estral’s mother managed a lumber camp in the northern wilds.

  Estral shook her head.

  “So,” Karigan said, “you decided to set out and look for him yourself.”

  Estral nodded, her expression fierce. She wrote, And to prod the king—more searchers.

  Karigan suppressed a smile at the idea of prodding the king—any king, for that matter. One just did not do that, but Estral wasn’t just anyone. Beneath her gentle demeanor was the heart of a catamount. As for searching, where and how would she even begin? First of all, this was Estral who disliked travel and leaving home. For all that she’d spent a good amount of time down by the D’Yer Wall, Karigan knew her friend was an avowed homebody. Second, it was a big world—Lord Fiori could be almost anywhere. Not to mention it was winter, and a fierce one at that. Estral had survived the journey to Sacor City from the wall, but by the look of it, just barely.

  WELL? Estral demanded, underlining the word three times. Aren’t you going to tell me I’m stupid?

  “Of course not,” Karigan replied. “If it was my father, I’d want to search, too.” Just the idea of someone she loved going missing, however, gripped her so suddenly, so unexpectedly, she caught her breath. Grief surfaced sharp and raw, and a tremor daggered through her body. She fought to maintain her composure, to rein in a torrent of emotion.

  Cade . . . Without him, she was but cold ashes.

  Estral reached over and placed her hand on Karigan’s, her eyes of sea green conveying her appreciation for Karigan’s understanding and, perhaps, detecting her distress, concern.

  Karigan took a trembling breath before she could speak again, hastening to move on from the grief that haunted her. “And what did Alton have to say about your plan to leave and search for your father?”

  Estral shrugged, her expression inscrutable.

  “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

  Estral wrote, Left note.

  Karigan could only imagine how well that went over. The wall had changed Alton, he had grown more volatile, and she knew he’d be distraught by Estral’s departure. It did not help that, at the moment, there was no direct contact between the castle and the wall, so there was no way to allay his fears. Rider-Lieutenant Connly, whose ability was to mentally communicate with another Rider who was stationed at the wall, was stranded by the weather in the west. She could only hope the storms would calm so Connly could make his way back and restore contact. If the weather settled down, they could also send a message by conventional means.

  “I’ll ask the captain to send Alton word of your arrival when we are able,” Karigan said.

  Estral once again touched her hand in gratitude and mouthed, Thank you. Then she yawned.

  Karigan stood. “I was told you were very tired. I’d better go so you can rest.”

  Estral looked ready to protest, then seemed to reassess. She sagged against her pillows.

  “We’ll talk again when you are feeling better,” Karigan assured her. “I’ll look in on you tomorrow.”

  Estral held her arms open, and the two embraced, something Karigan had feared she’d never get to do again.

  She stepped out into the corridor of the mending wing and softly shut Estral’s door behind her, then paused, closing her eyes. It had turned into an eventful day, but even with all the surprise visitors, she was left feeling bereft, alone.

  When she returned from the future to her present, she had been torn from Cade. He had been unable to cross through time with her. His loss cut through her gut—cold, steely, and excruciating, but she tried to cope with it by throwing herself into her duties—minding the Rider accounts, mucking stalls, cleaning tack, working with Arms Master Drent . . . She kept hoping time would give her distance, make each passing day a little easier, dull the pain. Some days she would begin to feel as if she were regaining her equilibrium, feel like her old self again, and then something—the sound of a voice that had a familiar texture to it, or even the scent of boiled cabbage, strangely enough—would bring it all back, remind her of those last moments when they were ripped from one another, leaving them separated by a gulf of almost two hundred years.

  She constantly wondered what had become of him, or rather, what would become of him. Her return had to have altered the threads of time in some way, and there was no telling if he would even exist in the future now.

  She set off, leaving the mending wing behind. The walls around her blurred as she walked, descended stairs, crossed through halls and corridors. She had been doing well for several days in a row now, but Estral’s distress for her father had heightened Karigan’s own sense of vulnerability, aroused her fear for all that could be lost, and her grief for what had been.

  Lhean’s presence also brought the pain back with a sharp, terrible immediacy. He had been in the future with her, had met Cade. He’d been there the very moment Cade had been torn from her. Lhean was her connection to memories of which she possessed only glimpses. She wanted to speak of Cade with Lhean. Doing so, she thought, would keep him alive, but would also hurt. Sometimes she wished she could forget so the pain would go away. Oblivion would be so much easier.

  The castle appeared nearly empty. Most inhabitants would be at supper at this hour. The deserted corridors echoed the hollowness she felt within.

  She shook her head thinking that only she could feel lonely when her father and aunts had come all the way from Corsa to visit her, and her best friend was also here.

  She turned down the dim main corridor of the Rider wing, suddenly exhausted by it all. She would take advantage of the quiet, and sit and rest in the Rider common room. It was usually too noisy with boisterous young Riders made restive by being stuck indoors for so long, but with them all at supper, the common room beckoned.

  Yes, she would sit for a while and think of Cade. She would try to remember.

  Anna the ash girl was just exiting the Rider wing with full buckets when she espied Rider Sir Karigan’s approach, her head bowed in a thoughtful manner. Possessed by some unknown urge, and before she could be seen, Anna scurried away and hid behind a bulky suit of armor standing at attention in the main corridor.

  She watched Sir Karigan enter the Rider wing, continuing at her deliberate pace. Anna carefully set her buck
ets and brooms down, trusting they would remain unnoticed behind the armor, and crept back to the entrance of the Rider wing. The area had been abandoned by its occupants, who were off to supper. She’d been on her own there while cleaning the fireplaces and stoves that kept it warm, but she hadn’t felt entirely alone. Certain sections of the castle, the really old parts like the Rider wing, often left her feeling spooked, like she was being watched by someone who was not there. She hated when she had to work in such places by herself, but was now inexorably drawn back by the presence of Sir Karigan.

  She slipped into the dim, rough-hewn corridor of the Rider wing, making sure to keep her distance, clinging to the wall thinking she could dart into one of the arched doorways that led into the bed chambers, if need be.

  What am I doing? Anna wondered. Her fellow servants often called her “Mousie” for being so timid and quiet, but for some reason, she could not help herself. She had always been intrigued by the Green Riders, their easygoing manner, the confidence with which they carried themselves. They rode into danger willingly, knowing they might never come back. Most of them were commoners like her.

  Among them, Sir Karigan stood out.

  They had said she was dead, but she had returned, and if rumor held truth, she had returned in a most unusual manner.

  Spat right outta thin air, as Wallf the footman would say, reverting to his common burr, rather than the more refined speech he used when on duty in the presence of the highborn. He had been working in the king’s great hall during the feasting on Night of Aeryc. Spat right outta thin air and landed on the table of the nobles. What a mess! And Lord Mirwell howling like a cat in heat when the soup spilled and scorched his itty bits.

  Up ahead, Sir Karigan turned into the common room. After cleaning the spent ashes in the fireplace there, Anna had banked the coals. The chamber would still be warm. She increased her stride, hoping Sir Karigan didn’t suddenly decide to turn around and discover she was being followed.

  Anna slowed as she neared the common room, tiptoed to the doorway, and peered in. Sir Karigan left the lamp on the big table at low glow, but threw a log onto the coals. She stood there staring into the hearth.

  Anna had heard, of course, about some of Sir Karigan’s deeds, how she had helped save the king’s throne from his usurper brother, and how she had helped rescue the queen from Mirwellian thugs, before the queen was the queen, that was. Then she’d been brave enough to go into Blackveil Forest. But Anna also heard rumors of magic and even greater deeds that were not openly discussed. Just whispered nuances she caught as she went about her duties sweeping away ashes. The Riders were careful not to speak of magic—she’d never overheard anything, anyway, but she believed there was a lot more going on than was apparent on the surface, and that Sir Karigan was involved in much of it. It was a shame the Rider could not receive proper acclaim for her accomplishments, but she guessed that was why the king had made her a knight when there had been none for a very long time. For Anna, it just made the Rider more of a mystery.

  The log ignited, the hearth flaring with firelight. With a heartfelt sigh, Sir Karigan sank into a rocking chair. Slowly, the chair creaked back and forth. The Rider appeared to have a lot on her mind. If Anna were more brave, she’d ask what troubled her.

  I shouldn’t be spying, Anna chided herself. She was about to hurry back to work when the Rider spoke. Anna froze, fearing she’d been discovered. How would she explain? But she then saw the Rider had not shifted her attention and seemed to speak to the fire. She crossed her arms as if to hold herself.

  “I miss you,” Sir Karigan was saying. “I would give anything to have you here, or me to be there. To be with you.”

  Anna had no idea of whom Sir Karigan spoke. It was odd, she thought. Sir Karigan was regarded with admiration by important people, not least of all the king, and she was often surrounded by her friends and fellow Riders. She had to be strong to survive her many adventures. She’d accomplished heroic deeds. And so Anna thought she would be invulnerable to the difficulties more common folk suffered.

  But now she saw how wrong she was. As Sir Karigan murmured the name “Cade,” she thought she had never heard such pain, seen so lonely a soul.

  Anna hurried away, cheeks warm at having witnessed so raw a moment that was not meant to be seen. Even heroes, she learned, bore more sorrows, worse than any bodily wound, than she could have guessed.

  THE WINTER WOOD

  In the deepening dusk of the winter wood, Grandmother stared in disappointment at the remnants of the snowball on her mittened hand. It had simply crumbled apart, refusing to take form around the knotted yarn as the spell required. The weather had been too frigid to make packable snow.

  She shook the snow off her yarn. The weather was too frigid period. Oh, how she yearned for summer. Despite all the hats, mittens, scarves, and socks she knitted for herself and others, no matter the number of furred hides she wrapped around herself, she just couldn’t keep warm. She stamped her feet to force feeling back into them.

  A crow cawed among the clacking branches of the winter wood, her only company. She’d needed to leave the encampment of her people, civilians and soldiers of Second Empire alike. She’d come alone because she needed silence and the ability to hear herself think. As Second Empire’s apparent spiritual and practical leader, they constantly sought her counsel on the minutest of troubles, whether they needed her to mediate disputes over the ownership of chickens or help mend a child with the croup. She could not get a moment alone, but today she had even left her granddaughter, Lala, behind.

  Yes, she had set off alone, but not without protest from those who looked up to her. The woods were not safe, they said, warning that she could run into a pack of starving groundmites on the hunt, or be tracked by assassins from the king. Why, the woods were filled with ferocious wolves.

  “The cold will likely kill me first,” she muttered.

  She had shrugged their concerns away and come into the woods alone. If she wanted this spell to work, she needed silence.

  Caaaaw!

  Relative silence, anyway.

  She examined her knots. To the untrained eye, they resembled nothing more than a lump of snarls, but she saw the spells she had instilled in them, full of her intention, potent with magic. There still existed in the natural world powers both small and great, which were the basis of elemental magic. It was possible to go even further and conjure spirits that were an embodiment of specific elements, cause them to manifest and do one’s bidding. The calling of such an entity, however, was not easy, for the conditions would have to be perfect and the spell carried out without flaw. Further complicating the procedure was the fact that elementals were unpredictable. One could try to bind them for better control, but such a tactic could compel them to turn on the spellcaster in retaliation. So, she had been careful to weave into her knots goodwill, as well as what it was she wished to achieve.

  An attack on the castle, she thought. She hoped the power she beckoned could accomplish in winter what an army could not.

  The flapping of wings drew her attention back to the crow. It shot up through the trees and became a dark blot in the sky, sailing away on air currents.

  Truly alone at last, Grandmother examined her knots once more and found them satisfactory. This time she removed her mittens, exposing her flesh to the bitter air, and scooped up more snow. She must use the snow, for it was an expression of the entity’s essence that she called upon. She started molding it around the yarn. This time the heat of her bare hands caused the snow to adhere even as it froze her fingers. She tried to prevent her hatred for the cold from seeping into the spell—such an attitude would surely anger the one she called. She concentrated instead on the beauty of an unsullied field of snow, icicles glistening in pale sunlight, flurries muting the air, the bite and raw power of a blizzard.

  She shunted her hatred toward King Zachary and all those who served hi
m into the spell, for Sacoridia was Second Empire’s ancient enemy. The king hunted and persecuted them, and while her people suffered and perished in this harsh winter, the king stayed warm and well-fed in his grand castle. They needed a victory, Second Empire did, for there had been too few, and if this spell worked, it could bring Sacoridia to ruin. Oh, how she fantasized about what she might do if she could get her hands on the king. He was not invincible, but a man of flesh and blood, and she knew the ways to extract the utmost pain from one such.

  “To Sacor City, I beseech you!” she cried, holding the snowball aloft. Better to beseech an elemental for its help than offend it by commanding it. The wind howled and rattled branches seemingly in approval. “To the castle! I call upon your winter fury.”

  She tossed the snowball as high as she could. It plummeted back to Earth and plopped into a drift between a pair of trees. She stood over it, blowing on her stinging hands to thaw them before pulling on her mittens.

  Nothing happened. The snowball just sat in the crater it had created in the drift.

  She waited some more. The crow, or one of its brethren, returned to a branch over her head and cackled. At her, she thought sullenly.

  Still nothing.

  She hopped up and down to get her blood flowing. She paced and pounded her hands together. It was freezing and she was exhausted by the casting of the spell, and she still had a long walk back to the encampment. The spell, if it had been correctly fashioned, should have worked by now. Standing around and turning into an icicle wasn’t going to change anything.

  A howl shattered the quiet of the wood, and was answered by others. Grandmother shivered, and not entirely from the cold. Wolves were on the hunt.

  She gave the spell a little more time, but the howls came closer, and she dared not linger. She shook her head at the futility of it all and turned away. What had she expected? Some grand whirlwind of ice to rise up? A snow demon? A chorus of supernatural beings singing her praises? It was too much to hope that an elemental power would rise forth to aid Second Empire against the Sacoridians, and she wondered what she had done to so displease God.