Mirror Sight (40 page)

I wish to exist,
he thought.

He let go of the tortured button now hanging on a loose thread and, not wishing to give voice to his concerns to Cade about Karigan’s altering time, he said, “It has come to mind that our Green Rider has not revealed the extent of her knowledge of the past.”

Cade shifted. “You believe she is withholding information?”

The creaks of the restless old building filled in the silence as the professor considered his reply. “She has done nothing to challenge my trust of her—not yet, anyway—but I believe her first loyalty lies with her king and her time, and that if she felt she needed to protect some aspect of the past, she would see fit to withhold information from us.” Like an alternate entrance to the tombs, he thought, or knowledge of the dragonfly device. “She is our ally so long as it suits her, but she is an independent spirit. I think, for instance, she would go after the Eletian by herself if I declined the help of the opposition. You’ve spent time with her, Old Button, what do you think?”

“I believe,” Cade replied, head bent in a thoughtful posture, “you are correct. Her independent spirit is something we don’t see much of here. Not even among the male population after almost two centuries of being trammeled down by the empire. I would also submit she is a person of honor, honor of another era, a time of great deeds when enemies came face to face in the light of day.”

“What is it you are saying?”

“I am saying that Silk’s work goes on at a great pace because we, the opposition, are too cautious. We attend parties, go about our routine, and this war of ours, well, it’s a war of secrets. Little is actually ever done. It—it is more like a gentleman’s club than an active resistance. But Silk, as well as the emperor and his Adherents, are fully committed. They take the active role.”

The professor stared at his protégé in disbelief, restraining the impulse to lash out at him—at Cade who had never before spoken a word of criticism against his efforts to lead the opposition, to keep its members safe, and most importantly to protect the royal heir. How could Cade protest that? But it was Cade, after all, a man of few words, his obedient student. That he should speak out at all was enough to stun, and the rarity of it meant the professor needed to take notice, to consider his words.

“Gentleman’s club, eh?”

Cade nodded, his serious expression unchanged.

A war of secrets, he had said. The professor knew it. Every time he attended the theater, a dinner party, or a tea, he participated in that war, spying, exchanging veiled barbs with his enemies. It had become a game, albeit a deadly game. He’d been so consumed with protecting the opposition that he’d preserved it like one of his artifacts. He’d stopped it in time. There was no forward momentum, no action, no victories to claim. The emperor and his minions moved ahead as steadily as they ever had, and there were no gains for the opposition.

Feeling drained, the professor wished for a chair to sit on, but there were none on this floor so he leaned against a sturdy pillar.

“Our Green Rider,” Cade said, “is a woman of honor. She will respect your request to wait on your decision about the Eletian. I suspect, however, that as a woman of honor, she won’t let the Eletian go unrescued no matter your response, and she will do what she believes is necessary.”

At least he and Cade agreed on that matter. The professor had identified her fierce spirit early on, but the more he thought about it, the more he began to feel like he’d been sheltering a keg of blasting powder beneath his roof. It was regrettable. If she were a more compliant woman of his own time, he’d have nothing to worry about, but then she wouldn’t be the interesting person he’d grown so fond of. Unfortunately, he might have to quell everything that made her who she was.

There were ways to prevent any rash action on her part, he knew. Convenient he’d given her the cover of being mad. It would be easy to withdraw her from society, lock her away, which would also prevent her going back to the past and altering time. He shook his head, sorry to even consider such possibilities. He would do so only if necessary.

He realized he could not confide in Cade these darker thoughts, these contingencies, since it was clear that Karigan G’ladheon had won him over. The professor had seen them kiss, he’d seen the way Cade watched her when she wasn’t looking. “Keep an eye on her, Old Button, and let me know if she seems likely to make a move without me. I have much to consider.”

Cade nodded, obedient as ever. But how obedient? the professor wondered, in light of his student’s countering opinion.

Gah,
he thought.
I have spent so much time intriguing that I’ve become suspicious of everyone. Even Cade, who is like a son to me.

His shoulders sagged as he led the way toward the stairwell. There was an enemy around every corner ready to reveal him and all he’d worked for. He had to be suspicious, even of his dear Old Button.

K
arigan flipped the lever just inside the doorway of the third floor, and light came to life throughout the room. She hadn’t asked the professor’s permission to see her belongings, and why should she? He’d never said she could not. They were
hers,
after all, and she had no plans to disturb his other artifacts.

She sought the correct aisle, passing draped furniture and a stack of empty, gilt frames. She strode past a rusty kettle balanced atop a birdbath, and turned down the aisle, drawn inexorably on. Though the professor’s shelves were packed with all the treasures he’d amassed, she walked right past them, interested only in the objects that had traveled through time with her.

When she reached them, she found them just as she had last seen them, her uniform, her brooch, and the owl feather spread out on plain linen, the moonstone glistening on crumpled velvet. There, too, was her bonewood cane and the shards of the looking mask. She caressed her brooch, but felt nothing other than its smooth texture, no tingling resonance of her special ability, nothing. The moonstone only offered a dim flicker at her touch. She feasted her gaze on the green of her tattered, muddied uniform. Well dried now, the mud crumbled at her touch.

She had come here, she realized, because these items were her only link with home, her own time. She pressed her cheek against a length of green fabric. It had taken on the scent of the dusty mill, displacing any that may have come from her own time, even that of her toil through Blackveil. If only she could take her things back to the professor’s house—or at least one item, perhaps her brooch. But she knew the professor was right—her things were safer here. Maybe she could just visit them more often. She feared that the more she grew accustomed to the professor’s world, the more she would forget what it was like to traverse a public street unveiled or to carry a sword. She feared her former life would become like the memory of a dream, the details dissipating with every passing day. Already, she thought, she had adjusted to the acrid air of the city. The customs of the people were becoming more familiar to her. Would she forget what it was like to be a well-rounded citizen able to take part in the many spheres of life as she had in her Sacoridia? Would she accept her role here, limited to domesticity and having no say in her own affairs? The women here lived well or poorly based solely on the sufferance of the men who held control over their lives.

While Karigan’s Sacoridia had not been perfect, she could not believe it had come to this. How had Amberhill managed to steal the individual power of all the people here, leaving the women—and the slaves—trapped at the bottom of society?

It was the weapon. The weapon the professor said Amberhill had wielded in the decisive battle. Some great weapon, the one that had destroyed Sacor City and the castle. Now Silk was delving for a device that could counteract the emperor’s power, trying to reach it before the professor and his opposition could. If only she could get back home, warn the king . . .

The shards of the looking mask flashed when she thought of King Zachary. She jerked back, startled, but when there were no images in the offing, she assumed she had merely caught the light glancing on them at an odd angle.

Then, a few heartbeats later, the images came, revealing a chamber draped with heavy tapestries and shields. In the center of it stood King Zachary who wore a gleaming breastplate. He tugged at it, as if checking the fit. She did not see him as she’d once seen Captain Mapstone—the same image but at different angles in each shard. She saw his image as a mosaic that created a single picture.

She noted how light from an unseen window slanted in on the king, burnishing his hair and close-cropped beard more red-gold than amber. It glared on his breastplate. He was the same as she remembered, and yet not . . . His cheekbones looked sharper, his eyes shadowed, tired. Despite the sunlight, there was a darkness on him. He turned, as if to examine himself in a mirror from a different angle. His profile looked too thin to her. Had he been sick? She frowned, worried now.

An attendant came forward and also checked the fit of the breastplate, tightening side straps, and then stepped back and out of the image. Karigan wished she could hear what was being said, if anything. Wished she could step through the vision to be there in the chamber with him.

Theirs was a story of two people bound strongly to one another yet forbidden to be together. He was royalty, she was a commoner. He must marry Lady Estora to maintain the unity among Sacoridia’s twelve provinces in the face of threats from Second Empire and Blackveil. His taking a commoner as wife would only thrust the country into discord.

Not that Karigan hadn’t imagined such a marriage. She laughed at the thought of herself as queen.
I’d be terrible!
A queen would be as confined to that role and to the castle as any woman of the professor’s time to the hearth and veil. If she stayed here, it would kill her. The confinement. The rigid and limited expectations. So would the crown. No matter it was the highest rank to which one could ascend—after the king, of course—it was just another kind of prison. Even duty-bound to the messenger service and required to follow orders from her superiors, she was freer as a Rider, as free as anyone could be, which was amusing because she had once believed the opposite.

Despite her feelings on the matter, she could not help but want to be there with the king. No, not the king, but with Zachary, the man. She’d met no other like him and doubted she ever would.

He turned, once again facing her, and looked up, almost as if gazing into her eyes. She inhaled sharply.

“Your Majesty?” she whispered.

He gazed thoughtfully back at her, or so it seemed. She felt as if she could almost reach out and touch him, but his gaze shifted away suddenly, and it was a sundering that hurt almost physically. Another entered the vision, this time a Green Rider with red hair that could only be Captain Mapstone.

“Karigan?”

The professor’s voice echoed through the vast space. Karigan jerked back in shock, and the image in each shard fluttered like a candle flame and then darkened as if snuffed. As King Zachary’s image vanished, she cried out, feeling so alone in her exile.

“Well, hello there!” The professor appeared at the end of the aisle, then made his way toward her. “We did not expect to see the lights ignited on this level.” He did not sound angry.

Karigan found she could not speak or move, only hold herself and stare at empty mirror shards.

“What is it?” the professor asked as he neared her. “You look troubled.”

Troubled was an understatement. She had lost everything, everyone.

The professor glanced at her possessions, then back. “Oh, I see. You are homesick.” His voice was gentle. “No doubt the presence of the Eletian has brought thoughts of your home to the fore.”

To Karigan’s disgust, her eyes brimmed with tears.

“There, there, my dear.” At first the professor patted her shoulder, then awkwardly he embraced her. “I am so sorry. It must be unbelievably difficult for you, and it’s been a long night, too, eh?”

Karigan leaned into him, actually comforted by his stiff attempt at an embrace, the texture of his tweed coat pressing into her cheek. Then they parted, and she sniffed. She had managed to avoid a blubbering torrent, and for that much she was grateful.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just needed to—” She waved her arm vaguely at the artifact room to indicate her trespass.

“I understand, my dear. No need to explain. These items are reminders of your home.”

She nodded, and let him believe that was all.

“Professor?” Cade called from the end of the aisle. “Is everything all right back there?”

“Everything’s just fine,” he replied, and he extended his arm to Karigan. “Shall we?”

She nodded and took his arm. They strolled down the aisle, and she did not look back. As they approached Cade, who stood in the shadow of the shelves, she saw him as a Weapon in black, still and silent, and it seemed right, as if this was the way it had always been. For a moment, she forgot where and when she was, just pleased to see the familiar visage of a Weapon. In the next moment her vision cleared, and she saw he was, in fact, not a Weapon but just Cade in his poor student’s garb. She shook her head at the trick light and shadow had played on her.

“It’s been a long night, Old Button,” the professor said, “and I think a little sleep would do each of us a world of good.”

 • • • 

Karigan remained silent during their walk through the underground, trying to recall the picture of King Zachary. She wondered what was happening back home. It was vexing to be in the future and not be able to find out from some book of history. So much had been destroyed. She certainly had not found anything useful in the professor’s library, and no history book would cover the king’s day-to-day existence anyway. What was Zachary doing at this very moment? She’d observed their timelines were no longer concurrent—she’d seen sunlight aglow in the chamber he’d been standing in, but it was still the deep of night here. What could it mean?

When finally they climbed into the house, and she returned to her room, she thought she would look into the shard she kept concealed behind her headboard to see if she could call his image back. But once inside, she discovered, to her surprise, cool air curling into the room through the open window, and Cloudy the cat sitting on her bed. He watched her expectantly.

“What?” she murmured, and she softly closed the door behind her. No one else occupied her room—not even a ghost. None that she could see anyway. She set her taper on the bedside table and sat next to Cloudy. He rubbed into her hand and purred.

“How did you get in?” she whispered. It had happened once before and was a mystery that remained unsolved.

As she caressed him, her fingers trailed across a leather collar. She didn’t remember having seen one on him before. It was a plain collar, nothing fancy about it, but attached to it was a cylindrical case like those attached to the legs of messenger pigeons, but larger. He was no stray cat after all.

“Odd,” she said.

It got even odder when she opened the case and found a letter within addressed to “Karigan,” her name written in familiar and sure strokes.

I
n the present: Captain Mapstone

When Vasper the royal armorer tightened the side straps on the king’s breastplate and then stepped away, Laren noted two important things: The first was that Zachary had not yet recovered much of the weight he had lost since his wounding from the assassin’s arrow. His cheeks were more sharply defined making his expression more severe. He had trained away any remaining weakness and excess flesh with Arms Master Drent. She thought, perhaps, he worked too hard. Maybe he thought that by doing so he could erase the past. She did not know if it worked. What she did know is that it left him all sinew and muscle.

The second important thing Laren noticed as he turned to gaze at himself in the mirror, tugging on the breast plate to check its fit, was that this was not his parade armor. This was true battle-worthy steel lacking decorative embellishment. The only ornamentation was the silver etching of the firebrand and the crescent moon across his breast. This was Zachary’s war armor.

They’d been slowly readying for conflict with Second Empire, making plans and contingencies. There had been minor skirmishes in the north country, but no out and out battles, no formal declaration of war. Still, she should not have been surprised to find her king preparing here in his private arming chamber on so personal a level for a time when he might have to lead his forces onto the field of battle. She found herself startled on some level. Disturbed.

I pray he has no need to go anywhere near a battlefield,
she thought. Second Empire was a people without a country and only a small rebel army. Given time, they’d be brought to heel, but their forces were slippery, very slippery, and were backed by a necromancer. Should Mornhavon reappear and reinforce them . . . No, she did not wish to think of it.