First Rider's Call (30 page)

Karigan followed Lil Ambrioth and King Jonaeus into a sunlit chamber. It was a startling contrast to the darkness she’d been immersed in, and the stormy day she had left somewhere far behind, ages into the future.

A guard closed the door behind them and Karigan took in a low-ceilinged and plain chamber. There was nothing to ornament it except more battle banners and shields. The thick leaded windows were thrown wide open, and sweet summer air lilted in, dissipating the gloom of her time spent in the corridors. Outside came the sounds of marching feet and the shouts of a drill sergeant.

A long, rough-hewn table mounded with scrolls and parchments dominated the center of the chamber. Karigan wondered what treasures of information these might hold, but a single glance assured her she would never know, for they were written in the old tongue.

Lil Ambrioth was pacing, and the king watched her with his arms folded across his chest. They were in a heated discussion, but about what, Karigan had a difficult time deciphering, for their dialect was archaic. Gradually, she began to pick up on words, and finally whole sentences.

“The intelligence is reliable,” Lil insisted. “He’s breaking with Mornhavon.”

“Rumors,” the king said. “You cannot believe rumors.”

Lil made a frustrated sound in her throat. She was a powerful presence as she swept back and forth across the room. Suddenly she halted and gazed out the window. “More than rumors. He wants to meet with me.”

“No!” The king’s response was ferocious, and Karigan saw fear in his eyes. “I won’t have it.”

Lil turned to him, and when she spoke, her voice was lower, more intense. “Eight Riders died to bring me this information. How many more lives will it take before we have another chance like this—a chance we may never get again? How many more children born in war will grow up never to know peace? How many children will never know their parents because they’ve been slain on the field of battle? The orphan camps are overwhelmed, but I suppose when the children grow, they’ll be arrow fodder, able to carry a sword against Mornhavon. Like me.”

“I want to see this war ended just as much as you,” the king said gruffly.

“You want to see this war ended, hey? Well this may be how we do it. Hadriax el Fex has broken with Mornhavon, wants to see the atrocities ended. Think of the intelligence he’d give us that we could turn against Mornhavon. It will turn the tide of war. El Fex has been Mornhavon’s most trusted confidant, his closest companion.”

“Exactly my point,” the king said. “I do not trust him. It’s a trap—I know it is. Mornhavon hates you.”

Lil bared her teeth into a feral smile. “With good reason. I hope bringing his friend to our side will only make him hate me more.”

“I don’t like it. I don’t trust it.”

Lil threw her arms into the air. “You stubborn fool. We could end this war.”

“Or lose one of its greatest heroes for nothing.” The king’s expression was fierce, but softened. “I don’t want to lose you, Liliedhe Ambriodhe.”

“You will sooner or later, if this war goes on.”

“Hush.” The king drew her into his arms, pressing her cheek against his. “We will prevail.”

Lil leaned into him, wrapping her arms about him. “You are still a stubborn fool.”

“Am I now? Perhaps to love you.”

Karigan’s cheeks heated as the embrace grew steadily more intimate, and she bumped into the table, knocking over a pile of scrolls. Before she realized what she was doing, she caught one before it rolled off the table. The king and Lil broke their embrace and looked her way, though they could not see her.

“Who is there?” Lil demanded.

King Jonaeus’ sword rang out of its sheath. “Reveal yourself, mage! Only a coward stays cloaked in invisibility.”

The First Rider touched her brooch. Karigan’s own brooch seemingly stabbed her and she cried out in pain. She fell back as though jerked from behind, and the traveling began all over again.

Lil Ambrioth and King Jonaeus bled into an oblivion of streaming lights. Voices screamed by at an incomprehensible velocity, only to fade into some void of distance. Through light and dark she traveled, yet she never moved.

The traveling lasted longer this time, and she began to wonder, with rising panic, if it would ever stop, and if it did, where—or when—she’d end up.

She closed her eyes as air currents blew across her face, fresh then musty, cold then warm, damp then dry and smoky.

When the sense of motion ceased, she opened her eyes to black. To emptiness. To silence. Silence except for the throbbing of her own heart.

Had she returned to where and when she had begun? How could she know? As she sat there wondering what to do, a heavy cold settled over her, like the mantle of winter. It seeped into her flesh and she shivered uncontrollably, teeth chattering.

A dim light began to define the doorway of the chamber she was in, first softly, faintly, then growing steadily stronger. She forced her chattering to stop, and she heard light footfalls.

“Hello?” she called, but there was no reply.

The light grew bright enough that it leaked into the chamber itself. At its source was a lamp, and a face that peered in. Karigan gazed at herself. Startled, she could say nothing.

Her other self raised the lamp and squinted as if to see something.

A figure paused in the doorway just behind her. Dressed in black, he faded mostly into the corridor beyond, even though he carried a lamp of his own. Fastion!

“Reliving memories?” he asked.

Her other self did not answer. She seemed too far away in her thoughts, perhaps indeed, reliving memories.

Fastion left the doorway. “This way, Rider.”

Her other self did not follow immediately, but licked her lips and glanced back into the room. “Hang on,” she said into the darkness, a quaver in her voice.

Whom was she addressing? Herself? Was her other self aware of her presence?

“You’ve come too far forward—you must go back,”
she said, then turned from the doorway.

“What?” But her other self—her future self?—could not hear her, and hastened away, her lamplight fading with her retreating footsteps.

“Wait!” Karigan cried. She tried to stand so she might follow, but she hadn’t the strength and the effort left her trembling. She was trapped again in complete dark and silence, the cold penetrating to her very bones.

I’ve come too far forward. Now I must go back . . .
She mulled over the words of her other self, and wondered how she was supposed to “go back.” How—?

She brushed her brooch with her fingers and the traveling took her hurtling away through time once again.

WHISPERERS

“
F
or the glory of Arcosia,”Weldon Spur lock said.

“For the glory of Arcosia,” the others intoned.

One by one they lifted their hands, palms facing the center of the circle. Each palm was tattooed with a dead black tree.

They were the true bloods, his followers, direct descendants of those who, a thousand years ago, had come from the Arcosian Empire on the continent of Vangead to colonize and incorporate new lands into the empire, and to seize whatever resources the lands might yield. Particularly resources of a magical nature.

The true bloods now wore the smocks of bakers and blacksmiths, carpenters and wheelwrights. They might be tanners, coopers, laundresses, and yes, a chief administrator, but their ancestors had once been among the elite of Lord Mornhavon’s forces. Despite the fact their ancestors had been stranded here in these new lands following the Long War, their pride of empire never faded, even with successive generations. The descendants called themselves Second Empire.

Over time, lineages were documented—records now entrusted to Spurlock, as they had been to his father, and his father before him. The names of all descendants were known, and Second Empire inculcated its children from birth to the rightness of the empire, its customs, and the fragments of its language that had survived a thousand years. The true bloods married among themselves, not sullying their lines with those who had persecuted their ancestors after the Long War.

Second Empire retained a network of sects across the provinces, using trade guilds and business relationships to allow its members to congregate without arousing suspicion. They assimilated into Sacoridian culture only to protect themselves and their purpose; to remain invisible. Their heritage and artifacts from the imperial past—whatever fragments could be preserved—remained hidden, always hidden.

Of course, there had been many who broke with Second Empire over the generations and the group’s numbers were not as great as they had been. Some who had abandoned the cause were non-believers, or just not interested in their heritage or events of hundreds of years ago, and faded into the fabric of Sacoridia and Rhovanny, marrying outside the true blood. Others, more vocal in their condemnation of Second Empire, were dealt with severely, and permanently.

Candlelight and Spurlock’s lamp flickered across the faces of the faithful, leaving the shabby background of the chamber in shadow. This was an ancient room they had chosen for their meeting. Spurlock wondered what the first high king, Jonaeus, would think of the enemy meeting in his halls. No doubt he was writhing in his grave. For that matter, what would the current king, Zachary, think? Spurlock grinned at the thought of them meeting right under the king’s nose.

“The signs are upon us,” said Madrene the baker. “I’ve heard talk of some strange things afoot in the countryside.”

“Like a stone deer in Wayman,” Robbs the blacksmith said. “The city is full of such talk.”

“Yes, perhaps they are signs,” Spurlock said slowly. “I have believed all along that Blackveil is awakening.”

Carter, the wheelwright, scratched his chin, “What word do you receive from the wall?”

“Nothing in a good while.” Spurlock fingered the cool silver medallion he usually wore concealed beneath his robes. His ancestor had worn it a thousand years ago. His ancestor had been a celebrated general, and Lord Mornhavon gave him the medallion as a mark of favor. “A lack of a report means nothing. I am not concerned.”

“If the forest is awakening,” Madrene said, “and the D’Yers find a way of fixing the breach—”

“Yes, dear Madrene, I know.” Spurlock used as placating a tone as possible. “But you think they can really relearn craft they lost hundreds of years ago?”

This spawned a whole new debate among the group. Spurlock let them have at it. He would interject as necessary to soothe ruffled feathers. It was a sign of his leadership that they all listened to him for his counsel and deferred to his wishes. Should the empire rise again—and Spurlock knew in his bones it would be soon, and in his own generation—he would be a favored leader.

As he only half-listened to the debate, it felt as if someone watched, impossible as that could be. He glanced over his shoulder, but saw nothing except the moving shadows of the group.

He shuddered and returned his attention to the debate. He was letting the superstitions of that fool Dakrias Brown get to him.

Voices rasped against the inside of Karigan’s skull; agitated whispers that would not go away. Didn’t they know she was resting? She was so very tired, on the brink of sleep. She needed to escape the pain in her head, and she was so cold, but the whisperers would not leave her in peace.

She cracked her eyes open, and through the haze, saw the whisperers. They were huddled together in a circle, the glow of light falling upon faces and etching the shapes of bodies out of the dark. Their shadows danced weirdly against stone walls. Their features wavered in her vision as though they were under water, and she seemed separated from them by a hundred miles, though they might be just a few yards from her.

Was this the future she was seeing, or the past? Was it simply a dream?

“We must ensure the destruction of the wall,” one of the whisperers said.