“What in the name of the gods were they doing to you?” Mara demanded. “It’s not like you’re one of them—they can’t be stealing one of our Riders away!”
“I am thinking,” Elgin said, finally breaking his silence, “they have bestowed a great honor upon her.”
“They—” Karigan began.
“Honor?” Mara’s voice was aggrieved. “By breaking her hand?”
“Not—” Karigan tried to interject.
“It is obvious to me,” Elgin said, “they hold her in esteem.”
“But she’s a Rider, not a Weapon. I should really inform Captain Mapstone of this.”
“I—”
“I think Red probably knows,” Elgin said, “or at least sees it.”
Karigan heard an unmistakable snick as Yates’ hands probed the cane.
“I wouldn’t—” she began.
“If they hold you in such high esteem,” Mara said, turning to her, “why are they beating you up?”
“They—”
Yates shook the cane.
“No!” Karigan cried, but too late.
The shaft extended and the handle slammed into Yates’ forehead, knocking him over backward in his chair and leaving him in an unceremonious sprawl on the floor.
In the astonished silence that followed, Karigan said in a small voice, “They were teaching me staff fighting.”
A clamor arose in the room, but Mara shortly had it in hand. Elgin helped the dazed Yates to his feet and took him to the mending wing to get checked out. Yates would have a bump and bruise on his forehead as a reward for his curiosity.
Mara sent one of the young Riders out for a bucket of still unmelted snow in some shady corner of castle grounds to help Karigan’s swollen fingers. She sent another to the kitchens for whatever scraps were left over from supper since Karigan hadn’t had hers. The boy returned with bean soup and half a loaf of bread. Everyone else Mara sent to their chambers.
When at last the common room grew silent and empty but for Mara and Karigan, Karigan was able to tell her friend all about her visit with the Weapons. Mara tried out the mechanism of the staff several times, both impressed and disturbed.
“I can’t say I’m comfortable with them taking you into their world,” Mara said, setting the staff aside.
“I wouldn’t say they’re taking me into their world.” Karigan pulled her fingers from the bucket of snow and gazed at them. They were growing numb from the cold, but the swelling had decreased.
“Then what do you call this?” Mara rested her hand on the staff. “Made by Weapons with their shield on it.”
“I’m not leaving the Riders if that’s what you’re worried about. My brooch hasn’t abandoned me.”
“I know, I know. I just worry about you as a Rider and a friend. You’ve been put into such a strange position with the knighthood. And then there’s the Weapons. It just seems like they’re trying to turn you into someone else.”
Karigan set the bucket of melting snow out of the way and glanced at the bean soup. A layer of fat had congealed on its surface as it cooled and she pushed the bowl aside.
“I don’t feel different,” Karigan said. “At least inside. My outside hurts, though.” When Mara did not laugh or even smile at the joke, she added, “The knighthood is just a title, and as you saw tonight, no one treats me any differently. In fact Yates seems to be working hard to keep me humble. In any case, I’m still pretty much the same old me.”
“Yes and no.”
“Yes and no?”
“The same but not unchanged.”
“I think that’s true for any of us who have been through some of the things we have,” Karigan said. She watched as Mara’s hand went to the burn scars on her face. The fire that leveled the old Rider barracks had changed her, and not just outwardly. How could it not?
“It’s not just you as you,” Mara said after some thought. “It’s ... Five hells. I just don’t want to lose my friend.”
Karigan was taken aback. She was surprised, surprised and touched to hear the words spoken aloud, that someone actually cared. She had come to the common room hoping for a little sympathy for her bruises and found instead something even more precious: a reaffirmation of friendship and knowledge that someone gave a damn.
Not that she ever doubted the Riders cared about her, despite the fact they often worked alone on far flung errands. She might go months without seeing Tegan or Garth, or even Mara who kept close to the castle, but there was always that sense of family, of inclusion, and the knowledge the Riders would watch her back.
Still, it made all the difference in the world just to hear it spoken aloud.
“Mara,” she said, rubbing a stray tear from her cheek, “no title or gift is going to change our friendship. You won’t lose mine. Ever.”
“I guess I know that,” Mara replied. “But Osric’s death is still fresh in my mind, and now you’re being sent into Blackveil.”
“Lynx and Yates, too,” Karigan murmured.
“I understand the reasons for the expedition, but I wish none of our people had to go.”
“I know. But it’s what we do. What we all do.”
After that they spoke quietly for a while of Karigan’s preparations, then each went to her separate chamber. Karigan lit a lamp and found Ghost Kitty nestled on her pillow. She stroked his head for a while reflecting on her day, the gift from the Weapons, and her conversation with Mara.
It was true she might not return from Blackveil; but there had been other occasions when she might not have returned from other adventures. Danger was part of the job. Knowing people cared—friends and family both—buoyed her, made it worth coming back alive.
It occurred to her that in the event she did not return, her loved ones might appreciate some final word from her. She would write letters—one to her father and aunts, and one to the Riders. She searched through the drawer of her desk for pen, ink, and paper, and using a book as a hard surface to write on, she sat on her bed and set to work, Ghost Kitty purring beside her.
Mainly she told them how much she loved and admired them. She needed them to know it. As she had just experienced with Mara, love and friendship was so often taken for granted that one could forget, or begin to believe otherwise.
In addition, her father would be angry, so she wanted to ensure he knew she’d gone into Blackveil willingly and believed in the mission. She could never tell him about it beforehand—he’d be an absolute wreck and she could easily imagine him coming to Sacor City to berate both Captain Mapstone and King Zachary for sending her, something to be avoided at all costs.
When she was done, she folded the letters into envelopes and sealed them with green wax. She tucked them into the drawer and was about to put away her writing supplies when she paused and decided to write a third.
This one was to King Zachary.
She was not sure what he thought of her, or whether or not he thought of her at all anymore. He had once told her he loved her, but then agreed to the contract to marry Lady Estora, and since then she’d seen little of him. It was for the best, she knew, but it did nothing to squelch the ache she felt for something, someone, she could never have. Much of the time she could put her sense of loss to the back of her mind by keeping busy, but it never totally went away, like the undercurrent of a fast moving stream.
She felt she must put it all down in writing for him. For herself. If something should happen to her, she would know at least this one thing was not left undone; that words that should be said were not left unspoken.
She poured into the letter her dreams, her desires, and her regrets. So many regrets. She expressed how she felt for him—had felt for him for so long now—and how she wished things could have been different if only he’d not been a king or she not a commoner. She did not forgive him for suggesting that one moonlit night on the castle roof that she become his mistress, but she expressed understanding for how their births to one class or another put them in difficult positions.
She told him things in her letter she could never say now, but if she were gone, would not matter. At least he would know, and that knowledge would not affect his marriage, and hence, the stability of the kingdom. Then, before she could cross any of it out, she placed the letter into an envelope and sealed it.
The three letters would remain safely in the drawer, only to be found if she did not return from Blackveil.
LEADORA THEADLES
Over the next few evenings, only Donal met Karigan in the hall of the Weapons for staff training. She brought Mara along to prove to her friend she was not being inducted into any secret order, willingly or not. Mara, at first, gazed at the chamber with ill-concealed suspicion and interest, while Donal showed only mild surprise that someone uninvited had entered the domain of the Weapons. Maybe he did not turn Mara away because the hall wasn’t actually off-limits to non-Weapons, or maybe because she was Karigan’s guest. Whatever the case, Karigan was sure they received few visitors.
Donal was all business, even drawing Mara into the exercises so that Karigan had two opponents instead of one. Mara looked to be enjoying herself a little too much, sneaking in swats when Karigan was busy fending off Donal.
She learned to use the staff in both its short and extended forms to defend herself to a level Donal declared adequate. He showed her how to use the cane handle to hurt and maim an adversary.
Mara was exhilarated by the sessions, and at the end of the week, Donal presented her with a stout fighting staff of her own and made her promise to keep coming for practice while Karigan was away on her journey.
“Now look who’s being sucked into the world of the Weapons,” Karigan told Mara as they left for the Rider wing.
Mara, flushed and happy with the night’s exertions and her new staff, could only grin.
Sprained fingers and staff training in no way curtailed Karigan’s sessions with Arms Master Drent out on the practice field, or her duty to take care of Rider accounts. She showed Daro what needed to be done while she was away. Daro proved very quick on the uptake and Karigan felt sure the ledgers would not be in disorder upon her return.
There were more meetings with Captain Mapstone and General Harborough to make sure each of the expedition’s participants knew exactly what was expected of them. Karigan was beginning to feel a little like baggage for she was not given any specific duty. She lacked Lynx’s extensive experience in the wilderness, and Yates’ skills as a cartographer. The only reason she seemed to be going was that she’d been in Blackveil once before, for whatever good that would serve them.
She was run so ragged during the course of the week that she’d not been able to spare a thought for the upcoming masquerade. In fact, she’d put it out of her mind so thoroughly she’d pretty much forgotten about it.
When finally she came to her rest day, she awoke mid-morning and lounged in an armchair before the fire in the Rider common room still in her sleeping gown and wrapped in a blanket thinking she’d be more than happy to spend her entire day this way. She was exhausted. There would be one more day of preparation for the journey, then the morning after they would depart.
“Well, someone looks like she’s been out carousing all night.”
Karigan looked up from the fire to find Connly and Captain Mapstone standing there and gazing at her. It had been Connly who spoke. She probably should have at least put a comb through her hair before stepping out of her room, but it had seemed like too much effort.
“No carousing,” Karigan said. “I haven’t had the time.”
Connly nodded and smiled to indicate he’d only been joking.
“Best that you get some rest while you can,” Captain Mapstone said, “since you are leaving so soon and have a big night tonight.”
“Big night?” Karigan said, puzzled. Then it began to dawn on her.
Captain Mapstone raised an eyebrow. “Surely you didn’t forget tonight is the masquerade ball.”
“Oh, gods.” Karigan groaned and sank deeper into her chair. The masquerade. She had forgotten. She pulled her blanket over her head. Maybe if she hid, it would all just go away.
Sometime later she still sat there before the fire unable to make herself move. Stupid ball, she thought. I don’t even have a mask.
Mask? Did she even have anything to wear? A mask was the least of her problems. She flung her blanket aside and dashed into her chamber. She threw open the doors of her wardrobe and gazed at all the green hanging within. Green uniforms, some pieces of plain clothes, and one battered, ripped, and soiled blue dress. Despite all her wishing, a suitable costume did not magically appear before her.
Her plaintive wail of despair brought Mara and Tegan running to her room.
“What is it?” Mara asked.
Karigan held the dress in her arms. Her father had sent it to her in the fall to impress Braymer Coyle, but then after her disastrous encounter with the Raven Mask at the Sacor City War Museum, she’d used the dress to learn swordplay while formally attired. She’d neglected to have it fixed or cleaned.
“Masquerade ball,” Karigan said. “I must attend the masquerade ball tonight and I’ve nothing to wear.”
Mara and Tegan glanced at one another then stepped out into the corridor to confer. Karigan sank onto her bed, the crumpled dress still in her arms. Maybe she would not attend the ball after all, but the words of Captain Mapstone about supporting her king kept running through her mind and this ... this might be her last chance to see him.
Mara and Tegan stepped back into her room.
“We have an idea,” Mara said. “Get dressed. We’re going into the city.”
The two costume shops in the city—the only two worth patronizing anyway—were, as Tegan predicted, flat out of attire except for some mismatched oddments. Apparently everyone else attending the ball had already been to these establishments a while ago and cleaned them out.
“Now what?” Karigan asked, full of despair as she exited the second shop.
Tegan smiled. “Follow me. It’s a short walk from here.”
“What is?”
“The Magnificent.”
“The magnificent what?”
“The Royal Magnificent Theater,” Mara replied.
“You’re taking me to the theater?”
“I know someone,” Tegan said, leading the way, with Mara prodding Karigan from behind.
The Royal Magnificent Theater occupied almost an entire block in the artistic district of Sacor City, and rose high above the street. A sign lettered in gilt and flanked by carved masks and the royal symbol of the flaming torch announced its presence. It was frequented by all the elite citizens of the city when there was no party to attend at the castle or elsewhere. Karigan had never had the pleasure.
Plays, operas, and concerts were presented here. There were a few other theaters in the city, but they were much smaller affairs with correspondingly humble entertainment.
The great doors to the Magnificent beckoned, but to Karigan’s disappointment, Tegan led them right by the entrance, around the corner of the building, and down an alley littered with crates and refuse. Karigan thought they might use a side entrance to the theater, but Tegan instead stopped at a battered door on the building across the alleyway. Blue paint flaked off as she pounded on it.
Karigan began to wonder just what sort of person this was that Tegan knew when the door creaked open and a mouse of a girl peered out at them.
“Hello, Nina,” Tegan said. “Could you tell Madam Leadora I’m here to collect on a debt?”
Nina said nothing but receded into the building and closed the door soundly after her.
“Apparently not,” Mara muttered.
“Oh, Nina doesn’t talk much,” Tegan said. “She’ll be back.”
“What is this debt?” Karigan asked.
“Nothing nefarious, I assure you,” Tegan replied. “I did a favor for Leadora once. Introduced her to a friend who had a friend. Upshot is that she got this position with the Magnificent’
s theater troupe.”
“What position?” Karigan asked, but before Tegan could reply, Nina returned and beckoned them inside with fingertips that flared with silver. At first startled, Karigan shortly realized the girl wore thimbles and they’d caught in the light leaking through the door.
The entry was dim and smelled musty. A corridor led back a way, its broad plank floor bare of carpeting or ornament. There were two stairways. One led up, and the other descended below street level. Nina led them up the stairs in silence, holding her skirts with one hand and using the other to balance herself against the wall as she climbed, for the stairway was narrow and lacking a handrail. The Riders followed just as cautiously.
“Huh,” Tegan said. “Usually we go downstairs.”
When they emerged into the space above, Karigan was immediately reminded of the sail lofts she’d been in down in Corsa Harbor, only instead of grizzled, ruddy seamen bent over lengths of sailcloth, there were several girls and young women studiously sewing bright pieces of material together.
The loft was vast and much light flowed through windows at the front of the building, softening the starkness of the rough wood floors, beams, and support columns. Bolts of cloth in dazzling hues and patterns were stacked haphazardly on shelving and strewn across tables. Lengths of material were draped over mannequins and hung from hooks on the wall. Much of it shimmered with sequins and beads and metallic threads.
There were boxes of feathers and long ruffled scarves, and a mound of mismatched shoes. Caps and hats and the papiermâché head of a horse were piled in a corner.
The seamstresses never looked up from their stitching to see who had entered their domain, nor did they speak to one another. Their concentration was palpable. Among them paced a tall lady in a flamboyant purple gown, a measuring stick in her hand tapping on the floor with each stride. Her hair was coiffed and coiled into a perfect pile on her head, and her cheeks and lips were attractively rouged.
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