The whiteness sucked her in until she was surrounded by it and the coiling, flaring trees. All else—the encampment and Hawk Hill—was lost to her.
It was as if a door opened then and cold blasted her and dimmed the white light, made the trees of flame dip and sputter like candle flames. She had a sense of traveling forward through a tunnel, of being touched by time and its passage. Through the opening came a faint, black breath of command: Awaken the Sleepers.
And that was it. She was thrust from the white light, out of the vision, and found herself blinking at her very ordinary campfire. She had sought the word of God and heard it, and she now knew what she had to do. She must take a journey, and she would hasten it by traveling the ancient ways of her mothers, which would cover long distances in a short time.
She stood. Though her bones ached, she did not feel weary, but renewed, excited, invigorated. She must now speak with her people and Captain Immerez.
SARGE’S GIFT
“This sword was made for stabbing Make it rain blood ye infantrymen This sword was made for slashing Keep in step ye infantrymen”
At times the marching cadences allowed Beryl to transcend pain and discomfort, the rhythms carrying her aloft from the cares of the physical world up toward the dark of the heavens and peace, till she felt nothing at all.
Only to be yanked back to Earth by her guard jangling her chains, which sent shards of glass ripping through muscle and tendon. She screamed until she was too weak to scream, and was left whimpering and drenched with sweat, the gold chains strung tautly about her body. She became conscious of the camp buzzing around her and the sweat cooling on her skin. The tremors started as her body tried to warm itself, rattling the chains anew and sending the glass shards slashing again.
Did she weep blood? Did her flesh gape open from a multitude of wounds? She did not know. She knew only hooks and chains until she could gather her focus again, begin the marching cadences all over and escape. The moments of peace were worth the violence of being yanked back to herself, though she did not know how much more she could endure.
She was about to start the cadences again when she sensed Grandmother and the man standing nearby. She willed herself to listen to their conversation.
Grandmother sighed. “Eventually it would work. She’s wearing down, but I have not the time to wait.”
“What are you saying?” The man’s gravelly voice chafed Beryl’s nerves and only her will prevented her from shuddering.
“The book is on its way to Sacor City,” Grandmother replied, “and our brothers and sisters there will see it to the high king’s tomb. I am done here. It is time I went south and awaken those who sleep.”
“Done?” the man demanded.
“Done here, my friend. The work itself goes on.”
“What of us? You can’t just leave us.”
“But I must if I’m to succeed. You knew this day would come.”
Silence.
Then, “I didn’t think it would happen so soon,” the man said. “What are we supposed to do?”
“As you always planned,” Grandmother replied. “Disperse. Disperse as my sisters and brothers will, until called. Before I depart, I will release this Green Rider of her chains, and you may do with her as you wish. There is no time to see this experiment through to its conclusion.”
Beryl almost cried out her joy. To be released from gold chains! It did not matter what came next, for surely even death was better. The man cleared his throat as though to respond to Grandmother, but a commotion arose from somewhere across the encampment. Grandmother and the man left her.
Her elation turned to despair and again she almost cried out, for Grandmother had not released her. She had no other choice but to focus again on her cadences. Maybe it would be the last time she’d have to do this. Maybe Grandmother would return soon and release her. She enfolded herself in the steady rhythm of her cadences and awareness of everything around her dissipated.
Even as blind and disoriented as Karigan was with her head shrouded in the cloak, she guessed they were climbing into the Teligmar Hills. She had to adjust her center of balance as her mount trod a continuous incline, and she sensed many changes in direction as though following a trail of switchbacks. It made her light-headed, this movement without vision to ground her.
The air burned the raw flesh of her hands, knees, and elbows and sent feverish tingles shivering along her nerves. Would she have a chance to pick the gravel out of her skin? She was lucky not to have been crushed by Falan, if one could call being captured luck. The cutthroats had kicked and hit her into submission, but by the grace of the gods she did not think any of her bones were broken, though everything hurt.
She continued to pray she gave Estora and Fergal time to escape. There’d been too much confusion and pain to know if any of the cutthroats were sent down the road to look for them. At this point she could only guess her own fate, and none of her guesses boded well.
As she rode she felt almost as if she floated and she allowed her mind to wander away from her circumstances. Images of the plains came to her, images that now seemed so distant and out of reach; waking dreams of freedom and a gentler, more pleasant time. But she did not see the Frosts or their herds of horses or Ero the wolfhound. She saw him, the great black stallion walking alongside her with grace beyond that of an ordinary horse. His hooves made no sound on the earth, the breeze feathered his mane and tail little even as it stirred the tips of grasses. Then he knelt on the ground beside her, waiting expectantly for her…for her to mount?
Her horse stumbled and she grabbed at the pommel of the saddle with a cry at the pain that jolted through her. Gone were the images of the plains, lost was the stallion from her mind. Why would she seek comfort in the death god’s steed anyway?
The climb leveled out, and Sarge and his men were challenged by guards, followed by cheerful greetings of welcome. As they progressed, Karigan heard more and more activity around her, a spoon ringing on a pan, more horses whickering in the distance, voices in conversation, a hammer pounding…What was this place?
Amid the activity they came to a halt.
“Welcome back,” someone said.
“What ya got there, Sarge?”
“Get her down,” Sarge ordered.
Rough hands pulled Karigan off her horse and held her steady when she staggered. She concentrated so hard on maintaining her footing that she was surprised when the cloak was unbound and lifted from her. She blinked and squinted in the light until her vision cleared. Many people ringed her, gawking. There was Sarge and his band of cutthroats behind her and ordinary people of all ages before her, male and female, young and old, whole family groups. Sprinkled among them were the harder faces of soldiers, none wearing any device.
Muttering rippled through the crowd as a man shoved his way through, emerging before Karigan, towering over her. She stumbled backward in shock till she bumped into Sarge’s men and could go no farther.
“Immerez,” she whispered.
It was as if he stepped right out of a nightmare, glaring at her with his one green eye. The other was, just as she remembered, covered by a patch, a scar radiating out from beneath it. The waning light of the afternoon gleamed on his bald head.
Karigan shuddered with the memory of him hunting her, hunting her through the northern Green Cloak, his whip snapping behind her. Snagging her around her ankle till she cleaved off the hand that held the whip. She looked down and saw a sharp shining hook where that hand had once been.
If Karigan thought things were bad before…
“We have a problem,” Sarge said.
Immerez glanced at Sarge in incredulity. “A problem?” he asked softly.
Karigan closed her eyes and shuddered, remembering that harsh voice.
Incredibly Immerez threw his head back and laughed. It was an awful rasping sound.
Then he struck like a viper, hooking Sarge’s collar and drawing him close, almost nose to nose. Sarge swallowed hard.
>
“You’ve brought me a Greenie, not the lady of Coutre.”
“I–I can explain!”
“Release him, Captain.” An elderly woman appeared beside Immerez, a shawl across her shoulders and a basket of yarn over her wrist. She looked to be no one out of the ordinary, a villager or farmwife, someone’s grandmother, but Immerez deferred to her and released Sarge.
Sarge licked his lips. “We…we had the lady, sure enough, all the way to the crossroads. As we waited for your men to come down, somehow she escaped—vanished.” He glanced at Karigan. “A Greenie trick, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” Immerez echoed. “Then what happened?”
“We searched and searched the area. It was confusion, but then suddenly Lady Estora comes riding through the woods on her horse and we pursued. When we caught up, she killed three of my men, not to mention Whittle earlier. This one tricked us into thinking she was Lady Estora.”
“Idiot.” Immerez raised his hook as though to slash it across Sarge’s neck. “How could you be fooled so easily?”
“Hold,” the old woman said. “Hold, my friend.”
Immerez’s hook dropped to rest at his side. “Why should I? He failed us. He lost Lady Estora.”
“Did he fail us? Really?” the woman asked. “He got her all the way to the crossroads, and I think it more than adequate.”
Everyone gaped at her like she was mad.
“Our goal,” she continued, “was to distract the king, was it not? To distract the king and those who serve him, to send them on a merry chase. It would have been nice to meet the lady, and to use her captivity to our advantage, but our first intention was to empty the tombs of its guards, yes?”
Immerez calmed and nodded, and Sarge let out a breath of relief.
Karigan’s own thoughts were awhirl. They kidnapped Estora just to distract the king? To empty the tombs? What were they up to?
“Who are you?” she asked the woman.
The woman did not answer, but withdrew a pendant from beneath her chemise. It was crudely made of iron, but shaped into a design Karigan knew well: a dead tree.
“Second Empire,” she whispered. She glanced at the onlookers. “You’re all Second Empire?”
Some drew out pendants like the woman’s, and others raised their hands, palms outward, to show the tattoo of the dead tree.
The old woman smiled kindly to her as she would to a child. “Just a few of us. There are more, many more out in the world, my dear.”
“And you?” Karigan demanded of Immerez.
But it was the woman who answered. “There have always been those not of the blood who serve the empire. Arcosia, after all, was a land of many lands, and such cooperation was common.” Then more brusquely she added, “And now it is time for us to disperse. No doubt the king’s men will find this place in good time. Go on now,” she said to her people, shooing them away. “Finish packing and leave as soon as you are able.”
Many bowed and murmured, “Yes, Grandmother,” and wandered away.
The woman said to Immerez, “You may do with the prisoners as you like. They are no concern of mine.” She then walked away, among her people.
Memory of Fergal on his knees next to the Fountain Inn came to Karigan. He’d been sickened by the sight of an old woman. He’d seen in her, or around her, “all the worst things.” Was this her? It had to be.
Immerez addressed his men, “Get to work. We leave in the morning.”
When Sarge started to peel away, Immerez grabbed his cloak with his hook. “Not you.” Sarge blanched. “Did you send anyone looking for the lady?”
“Yes, sir. Clay and three others. If anyone can find her, Clay can.”
Immerez released him. “Good. If he catches her, we may stand to profit after all.”
When Sarge strode off, it was just Karigan and Immerez facing one another. He rubbed his cheek with the curve of his hook.
“Well, well,” he said. “After all this time. How often I imagined what revenge I’d take if the opportunity arose. Sarge doesn’t realize just what a gift he’s brought me.”
BLADES IN THE DARK
The road became uncommonly busy with travelers walking and riding. They looked commonplace enough to Amberhill, ordinary citizens alone and in groups, chatting and laughing among themselves, children skipping alongside carts loaded with belongings. It was just the sheer numbers of them on what should be a quiet road that made it so odd, like some exodus was occurring.
He grew even more suspicious when he discovered they were descending a winding path from one of the small mountains down to the road. It was too much of a coincidence to assume the travelers had nothing to do with the plainshield and his band of cutthroats, so Amberhill decided on a course of caution and hid from sight.
He watched from the shadows of the woods for a time, but did not see the plainshield or any of his men among the travelers. He decided he’d best climb the mountain if he wished to find them and concluded it wise to hide Goss and ascend on foot. It was difficult to remain stealthy with a horse in tow. Unfortunately it would cost him time and the sun was descending.
Amberhill secured Goss in a deep thicket hard against the rocky foundation of the mountain. There was even a trickle of a stream for the stallion to drink from. Once he settled Goss he returned to the trail. The travelers thinned out, but he kept to the shadows of the woods all the same, clambering among boulders and outcrops and the trunks of trees, the trail always just in sight. Whenever he detected someone coming down, he paused and watched. Still no sign of the plainshield or the one who posed as Lady Estora.
Up and up he climbed, scrambling straight up the slope, sometimes on hands and knees, instead of following each switchback. By the time the pitch leveled out, he found himself near the summit, the vegetation shrinking. He crouched low, watching for guards, and was not disappointed. He sank into some stunted trees and shrubs as the guard passed just a few paces from him. The deepening of dusk helped conceal him. Clouds had moved in through the afternoon, forming a halo around the low sun and obscuring rising stars.
When the guard was well off, he crept closer to view the summit, hiding among some boulders. An encampment spread out before him—a small encampment with tents. From the mixed stenches of animal and human waste, and after witnessing the exodus of the civilians, he could only conclude the encampment once sprawled across the whole of the summit. The ground cover was well-trampled and littered with refuse. There were numerous blackened fire rings left unlit like the remnants of some ancient civilization.
A few campfires popped up closer to the middle of the encampment. It was there, Amberhill surmised, he would find the brave soul who took Lady Estora’s place.
“Keep her close to the light,” Immerez ordered.
A pair of soldiers threw Karigan down beside a campfire, jarring her injuries. A cry escaped her lips and Immerez smiled.
Up until now, he’d spent his time organizing the followers of Second Empire in their departure and chivvying his own men to be prepared to leave in the morning. Throughout it all he stole glances at her like a hungry catamount anxious for dinner to begin. Finally, as the last stragglers departed and the gloom of dusk blanketed what remained of the encampment, he turned his full attention to her. A cold wind spread across the summit, blowing her hair into her eyes.
“We would not want to lose you in the dark, would we?” Immerez said. “No, I should think not. Greenies have ways of vanishing, don’t they?”
Karigan guessed he didn’t expect an answer, so she didn’t give him one. Not that she’d discuss Rider abilities with him anyway. She watched him pace before her, and again she saw the hungry catamount.
“You’ve no idea,” he told her, “what it’s been like. No idea. Hiding all this time as nothing more than a common outlaw, having my life and livelihood taken from me. My hand.” He waved his hook in front of her face, close enough she could see the tip had been honed to a sharp point.
He towered over her, glo
ating. “But who knew we’d meet again, eh? Who knew…”
“So you sold yourself to Second Empire.” The words were out of Karigan’s mouth before she could stop them.
“What else was I to do?” Immerez asked. “Run and hide in Rhovanny? No. The goals of Second Empire are not unlike that of Lord Mirwell’s.” The old lord, she assumed he meant. “To depose Hillander and establish a new order.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want? To become enslaved to the descendants of Arcosia? You know their history, don’t you, their desire to establish Mornhavon the Black’s empire here?”
“I am aware of their goals. And of course, they pay me well.”
“They’d destroy this land,” she said.
“What do you know of it?”
Quite a lot, actually, she thought. More than he could imagine.
“Besides,” he added, “their side is the winning side. The day will come and the world will see. I intend to be among the winners.”
Karigan sighed. She didn’t have the energy to argue with him. He’d committed enough treasonous acts that no amount of words would sway him. And really, what choice did he have? He’d be executed if King Zachary’s forces ever caught up with him—he was a hunted man so he might as well throw his lot in with anyone who offered him an alternative to being hanged. Odd that she was so understanding of his plight, though it had nothing to do with sympathy.
Must have jiggered my brain in the fall, she thought.
She wriggled her hands in their bonds, grimacing at the pain. Smoke spiraled up from the campfire and beyond it she could see Immerez’s men moving about, some cooking by another fire. She did not know what to do to help herself. Without the dark, she could not fade, and Immerez was not about to let her out of the light. Without the ability to fade, she could not make an escape.
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