Mirror Sight (25 page)

Cade lowered the gun, blue smoke drifting from the tip of it. Slowly he turned his gaze to her. “Told you it was loud.”

This time it wasn’t the buzzing that muffled her ears, but the shock of the blast. She shook her head trying to clear it.

“What is the advantage of the noise?” she demanded. “To deafen your comrades?”

“Can’t help the noise, but the reach and force of the weapon is its value. In your day, such a weapon would pierce the stoutest armor better than any arrow. Come see.”

He strode toward the target, and she hurried after him. She saw a hole in the center circle.

“Your gun did this?”

“Haven’t you been listening?”

Even though she’d had such a hard time hearing and observing his demonstration, she put it together that the gun had sent a small projectile through the target. She looked beneath the target and saw that the projectile had traveled through the bales of hay and into the mound behind. If only she could take knowledge of such weaponry home with her!

It’s a concussive,
she suddenly thought.
Or something like.
The Arcosian Empire had used weapons called concussives in its attempt to conquer the New Lands. Did the mechanicals and guns of this time represent a natural progression of invention over the generations, or had Amberhill somehow acquired the information to create such tools from some unknown documentation of Arcosian engineering?

She kicked her heel at the dirt around the hole where the projectile had entered the mound, and found it not too deeply buried. She tried to pick it up, the small chunk of lead, but it scorched her fingers.

“Ow!”

“Bullet still warm, eh?” Cade asked, a bit of a smile on his lips. Karigan scowled. He started to walk away, and then paused. “Want to give it a try?”

Karigan nodded, though she did not know how it would go with her unable to see the gun or hear Cade’s instructions.

“We’ll start at ten yards,” he said.

He paused some distance from the target and waited for her. She joined him, fingers still stinging. When he passed her the gun, she did not look at it. Just held her hand out to receive it. When the metal touched her palm, it seared, burning all the way up her arm, lightning flashing through her head. She screamed, the ground rushing toward her, the gun tumbling from her hand.

K
arigan curled into a fetal position when she hit the ground. She groaned. Her outstretched hand felt like it was on fire.

“Miss Goodgrave?” Cade patted her cheek and alternately sprinkled water from a canteen on her face.

“My hand!” she shouted. “Pour it on my hand!”

“It’s burned red,” he murmured.

She sighed as cool water flowed over burning flesh. The sensation eased, as did the throbbing in her head. When the canteen was emptied, Cade helped prop her into a sitting position.

“What happened?” he asked anxiously.

“Not sure. The gods. I don’t think they want me to know about guns.” She gazed at her hand to see the angry red color quickly fading, along with the pain, to a more normal shade.

“What? What do you mean the gods?”

“What else could it be?” It had been the shattering of the looking mask that had propelled her into the universe, but it was Westrion, god of death who had delivered her to this time. She could only conclude that the gods were blocking her and did not want her to bring the knowledge of such powerful weapons back home with her. In one way, it was a hopeful premise, because maybe they expected her to find a way home. In another, it was unfortunate they did not wish Sacoridia to obtain an advantage in weaponry over its enemies.

“We were forced to give up the gods over a century ago,” Cade said. “It was a very bloody episode in our more recent history. We were forced to worship the emperor and his machines.”

Perhaps that was the crux of it, the gods did not want their people on Earth rejecting them for machines. Yet, hadn’t she touched other marvels of this time, such as the plumbing and lighting? She’d seen machines, or at least pieces of them, in the professor’s mill, and the ominous mechanicals of the Inspectors. So far she’d experienced no ill effects from them. What was the difference?

Cade settled down beside her with the Cobalt in his lap. She did not look directly at it as he emptied the unused cartridges and began to clean it. “Whatever it is that is causing your, uh, problem,” he said, “maybe it’s for the best. Guns, well, they can cause harm in the wrong hands. Even be turned against the user.” His head was bent down as he worked. “It is also said that guns and machines have hastened the loss of etherea from the world.”

She glanced at her hand. It was now back to its natural color, no blistering, no sign of injury. If what Cade said was true, maybe it was for the best she did not take the knowledge of firearms home. She had the general gist of what they did but not the how. And come to think of it, she did not have the “how” of the plumbing or phosphorene lighting, either. What would happen if she tried to understand how
they
worked?

As for guns, that knowledge seemed to be particularly forbidden to her since she could barely even look at them. She clenched her hand closed. What would have happened had she held onto the gun and not dropped it? Could she have overcome the will of the gods or would they have destroyed her? She rather thought the latter.

“I must admit I was very sure I knew the way the world worked,” Cade said. He was now oiling the moving parts of the gun, suffusing the air with a heavy, metallic scent. “And then you arrived. I thought there was no place for magic in this world, but how else could someone from the past come to be here? I am learning there is much more to the world than can be plainly seen.”

Karigan knew the truth of that. Hadn’t she seen the ghost of Yates Cardell that very morning? She’d dealt with ghosts since becoming a Rider, but how they existed, why they appeared to
her,
remained a mystery.

The thud of hooves announced the return of Luke. Gallant and Raven were mildly damp with sweat, revealing they’d had some exercise.

“Heard only one shot,” Luke said, “then nothing. That all you’re doing today?”

Cade placed the Cobalt in its velvet lined box and closed it. “It is.”

Luke hitched the horses to the back of the cart, and the three of them disassembled the target. Cade’s pouch of cartridges, and the box with the Cobalt in it, were concealed in the false bottom of the cart, along with the actual target. Cade slid the cover of the false bottom in place, which was in turn concealed by the bales of hay. Then he pushed aside a variety of digging tools and removed a picnic basket.

“I took the liberty of bringing along a midday meal,” he said.

Karigan, Luke, and Cade lounged on a blanket to eat the simple meal of cold meats, cheese, and bread, and sip cool tea sweetened with honey. They spoke little, and when they finished, Cade collected the remnants into his basket. “I must return to the city.”

When Luke went to the horses, Cade turned to Karigan and said, “The professor told me all about what you did for Arhys this morning. Thank you. She can be trying at times, but she is worth protecting, even if it means protecting her from herself.”

Worth protecting.
It was an odd way of putting it. Did Cade see himself primarily as Arhys’ protector? And then it dawned on her: That was precisely what he was.

“You’re her Weapon,” she whispered.

“Apparently not a very good one.”

Karigan was pleased she had guessed right and that he didn’t bother to deny it.

“I wasn’t even there to save her this morning,” Cade continued, “and you have shown me how deficient my fighting skills are.”

“But not with the gun.”

“No, not with the gun.”

And that was the end of their exchange. Cade climbed up into the driver’s seat of the cart and wished them a good day before whistling his mule on. As Karigan watched him guide the cart along the bumpy ground, she thought a child like Arhys needed more than one Weapon to keep an eye on her. Several more.

Luke handed her Raven’s reins. “I think this one is ready for a nice strenuous workout. I’ve but warmed him up.”

Karigan mounted. Riding Raven, truly riding him, was a dream. He was tireless, moving effortlessly between gaits, attentive to her commands. Someone had trained him well before he came into Silk’s hands. They ran up and down the mounds as once she had done with Condor, Raven as smooth as a sloop cutting through calm waters. For a while she forgot about being in a different time, and the oddness of not being able to look at a gun, much less handle it.

Though Raven showed no signs of tiring, she slowed him to a walk and joined Luke and Gallant near where they’d picnicked.

“Looks like you’re getting some good paces out of him,” Luke said.

“He’s wonderful.”

“Well, sorry to say, but we best head back.”

Karigan wondered if Raven detected her disappointment because he pulled on the reins and turned as if he wanted to run up and over the nearest mound. She corrected him. “Sorry, boy, but we’ll do this again.”

“Of course you will,” Luke said cheerfully, “but it wouldn’t do to keep Miss Goodgrave out all day. Her absence might become too noticeable.”

As they rode away from the Scangly Mounds, Karigan took one more glance toward where the castle once stood in the distance. The smoke and haze had settled more heavily over the Old City than when she’d first viewed it. The clouds looked to suffocate all that was left. She turned her gaze away with a sigh that carried all the tiredness and sorrow she felt, and watched the path ahead.

T
he haze hovered over the mount like a poisonous fog. It shortened Lhean’s breath and burned his eyes. From its rim, he dropped down into his crevice and sat with his back against compressed rock and debris, a dim shaft of light falling on him. He closed his eyes, wondering why the people here allowed themselves to be exposed to such filth. He could only guess that they did not care they were shortening their already short, mortal lives.

He’d tried leaving the mount to search for the Galadheon, whom he sensed to be somewhere down in the city. He’d gone at night and only got as far as the river. The aura of misery, of cold brick and machine, had been too much for him, and he retreated to the remains of the Old City, back into hiding where he could consider his next move.

And now, another day was passing. He’d die here in these ruins just as surely as he would in the city below. His armor had turned a shade of gray, and not just from dirt. It had begun to flake and it ached. Ached all over his body. How long before it perished, and he must shed it? The armor mirrored his overall well-being. If he could not get home, or at least get off this mount and find proper nourishment, he too would perish, cease to exist.

He gathered a few edible wild herbs and roots growing among the ruins, but they were sparse and stunted, poisoned by the same air and water as he himself, and it was not enough to sustain him. He had one precious nugget of chocolate left in his pack. The maker of the chocolate called the variety Dragon Droppings. Eating it would revive Lhean’s spirit and vitality for a while, but he’d been reserving it for a time of dire need. As he weakened, he realized the need was nearly upon him. There would be a point after which even chocolate would not aid him.

He cracked his eyes open to gaze at the gray sky drifting past the craggy rim of his hiding place. If he ate the chocolate, he would have to take advantage of its benefits and enter the city to find the Galadheon. She was no Eletian, but she was his only link to home, and perhaps between the two of them they could find a way back. After all, it was the Galadheon who caused them to be here, wasn’t it? She who could cross thresholds . . .

He would do it under cover of darkness, of course. During the day the mount was too busy with slaves and their masters making the road and erecting a wood-framed structure at the summit. Fortunately his excellent sense of hearing had not deserted him, and even now he heard voices in conversation. They were not very close, and he was not in any present danger of being discovered.

“I’m telling ya,” one man said, “it’s got some of the slaves spooked, and their overseers, too.”

“These ruins are full of ghost stories,” a second man said.

“Yeah, but it’s slowin’ down work and making the boss none too happy. They say they see a figure all in white standing there, then the next moment it’s gone.”

Lhean frowned. Though he’d been careful in his scouting, he must have been seen. How else could he find out what was happening in the world if he did not scout? Just as well he was mistaken for a ghost—these ruins lent themselves to mortal superstitions very well.

The second man laughed. “Tell you what. If we see a ghost, I’ll shoot it, and then we’ll see whether or not it bleeds. Eh?”

The rest of the conversation faded as the two men moved out of range. Lhean would have to be more careful than ever to avoid discovery. The men he saw on the mount—men other than the poor slaves—carried weapons. Not bows and arrows, or swords, but devices that reeked of death and made him almost ill to look at. He’d seen them use the weapons, taking aim at the occasional hare or rodent. He’d covered his ears at the terrible noise they made, his eyes stinging from the quick gouts of flame that burst from the devices. The men usually missed their targets, but Lhean had seen how forceful the weapons were, how deadly they could be. He could be taken down long before he ever got within sword’s length of one of these shooters.

He’d heard of “concussives” used in the days of Mornhavon the Black, weapons that had helped defeat Argenthyne. What he saw of these shooting weapons sounded like the concussives of old. Had time bent round on itself?

He shook himself, trying to replace the images of these weapons, this place, by recalling memories of home, of Eletia, spring green and rattling aspen leaves, the slender white boughs of birches entwining overhead; of the music of water flowing through a lush glen and the myriad voices of songbirds. He faded into the memories, whispering a song of home, the ruins and gray air vanishing from waking thought.

The stars of Avrath, moon to rise, guide me, guide me home,
he sang in his own tongue,
for I am a mariner lost, a mariner lost on the misty sea . . .