“He said Captain Mapstone taught him how to make them when he was a child. He and Condor, by the way, seem to be getting on famously. He thought that if you had something of Condor close by, it might make you feel better.”
“I am so sorry,” Karigan murmured, “that I worried everyone so much. I was lost.”
“You were badly hurt. Still are, and we know this. With Nyssa haunting you, it is not surprising you were having an impossible time of it. Even had you not been haunted, the trauma of it . . . I have been having nightmares.”
Estral tied the bracelet around Karigan’s wrist for her, collected the dishes, and left to let her rest some more. She stroked the bracelet and smiled. She had once rejected a fine brush, comb, and mirror set he’d tried to give her. This, she would keep. So simple, so telling. And yes, having something of Condor close to her was a comfort.
She rested some more, in peace. When Enver returned and checked on her, he was pleased to learn she had eaten and was feeling better. She explained to him the torment of Nyssa, and then about the dream.
“Siris Kiltyre was,” she said, “the third captain of the Green Riders, and he wore the same brooch I now wear, which is why, I guess, he and I have a connection.” She told Enver how the ghosts of Riders past buffered her from Nyssa. “Siris said I should seek your help. I realize it all sounds incredible, but I have had dealings with ghosts before, including that of the First Rider.”
“I know this about you, Galadheon, and saw it when you breathed in the smoke spirits.”
Of course. With everything that had happened, she’d forgotten about that incident at the old lumber camp.
“You are wise to acknowledge the truth of these dreams and heed them,” Enver said. “In what way did Siris think I should help you?”
Karigan thought back. “He said to strengthen my mind against Nyssa. To give me the resolve to get rid of her. He wants you to show me how to listen to the voice of the world. I know I have not been very receptive.” She was still not enthused at the prospect, but she’d do anything to be free of Nyssa.
“The last time we attempted it,” he replied, and not without humor, “you fell asleep.”
“I remember.”
“Your Siris Kiltyre is wise. This Nyssa has found a way through your natural defenses, and despite your ability to command the spirits of the dead, you have been too weak to fend her off. Siris Kiltyre and the Riders beyond the veil are giving us a chance to strengthen your defenses; then you may do with the torturer what you must.”
What must I do with her? Karigan wanted to ask, but Enver was already bustling about, digging through his packs. He produced, to her surprise, two tiny teapots and an equally tiny cup. They were made with simple clay and glazed to a natural finish, and inscribed with intricate, swirling decoration.
“We’re having tea?” she asked.
He produced a pouch and sprinkled dry leaves into one of the teapots. “Yes, Galadheon.”
“We didn’t do this last time,” she said, with mounting suspicion. “Is it going to do something to me?”
He looked at her with amusement in his eyes. “We did not do this before because of your condition after inhaling the smoke spirits. The tea will help you clear your mind and find focus, but it is also the manner in which it is served that is important.”
A ritual, she thought.
He took one of the teapots outside, and when he returned, it was filled with steaming water. He sat beside her and placed it on a tiny trivet of metal birch leaves.
“We use all the elements,” he said. “The fire to boil the water. Water, which steams into the air. The clay pot is of the earth. The tea leaves, too, are of the earth, but also need water, the fire of the sun, and air to grow.”
As the tea leaves steeped, an herby scent pervaded the air. He then poured the tea into the other teapot. He used that teapot to pour into the cup. The tea was a light amber color speckled with tea leaves. He bowed over it, spoke softly in Eltish, and then handed it to her.
“As you drink, remember the elements that have gone into the tea’s making. Feel the heat of the fire, the moisture that has rained from the sky. Taste the earth of the leaves and clay, and feel the steam on your face.”
It was, indeed, hot, so she took care in sipping it, and tried to do as Enver said without her own skeptical thoughts intruding. The tea had a nutty tang, but mostly tasted like stewed grass. Or, at least, what she thought stewed grass would taste like. Again, she tried to focus on the elements that created the tea and not her own sardonic thoughts.
It took only a few sips to empty the tiny cup, and he gave her instructions to relax and lie down on her stomach as usual, since sitting for any length of time would strain her back.
“When you are stronger, we will do this outside,” he told her, “closer to the wind, to leaf and petal, the living rock. For now, if you fall asleep, it is all right. We will try again another time.”
She was determined not to fall asleep, and she tried to visualize the peaceful scenes he described as he led her along a mind path. Breathing deep was also important to the process. At times he chanted quietly in Eltish. She tried to stay with it, but her nose itched, she had to yawn, her head ached.
The aching, however, soon dissipated with Enver’s soothing tones, or maybe it was the effect of the tea setting in, but the visualizations came easier with startling clarity. Finally, he led her into a starry meadow of dew-laden grasses.
“Listen,” he said, “to the breeze rustle the grasses.”
She did.
“Feel the cool damp of a summer evening.”
She did.
“Hear the chirping of crickets pass in waves through the meadow.”
She did.
He gave her more sensory details, the spongy earth beneath her feet, the sweet scent of grasses on the air, and on until she felt she was truly there.
“You are hearing the voice of the world,” Enver said.
She was?
“You will hear it more clearly with practice. Do you sense the Nyssa spirit there?”
“No.” Karigan’s voice felt disembodied, as though she spoke in her sleep.
“Is there anyone else there with you?”
“There is a horse,” she said with some surprise.
“Ah, that is very appropriate. Tell me about this horse.”
“A mare. She is white, so white that she radiates light in the dark. She is walking across the meadow to—to meet me. I am offering her a handful of grass, and she is . . . a little taken aback, I think. All right, she is going to try it. I think she is doing so just to humor me. Oh, dear.”
“What is happening?” Enver asked.
“She doesn’t like the grass and is spitting it out.” It was actually quite comical to see the beautiful horse with such a look of distaste on her face, and working her lips and tongue to expel the grass. “She does not eat grass, apparently. She is gorgeous, and I think made more of light than horseflesh, though she is so soft to the touch. She tells me her name is Seastaria, and she is telling me not to be afraid.”
Seastaria permitted Karigan to stroke her graceful neck, and it was like warmth and goodness and strength, and most of all, love flowed out from her.
“Her eyes are the sky in daytime,” she told Enver. “I can see clouds drifting in them. She says she is my balance.”
The mare then turned away and trotted off across the meadow, her tail flowing behind her. She vanished, and Karigan felt the weight of night in her absence.
It was some while before Enver spoke again. She thought she must have fallen asleep for his voice sounded very far off.
“This meadow is a safe place for you, Galadheon. Come to the meadow if you need to escape the Nyssa spirit.”
He guided her out of the meadow, reversing the path he’d used to get her there. When she was back
to herself, she felt peaceful.
“That wasn’t too bad,” she said.
When Enver did not reply, she rolled to her side to look up at him. He stared incredulously at her.
“What?” she asked.
“Seventy-five years or more it took me to meet my aithen,” he said. “It took you less than an hour. And that was no ordinary aithen,” he continued. “A very powerful one. Seastaria is the day horse.”
“The day horse? What does that mean?”
Enver shook his head as if he couldn’t believe her. “She is deep in Eletian lore, and even in that of your people. She is what you told me, balance. The light to the dark, the feminine to the masculine, peace to strife, day to night. She is life. Your balance, Galadheon, has weighed too much toward the night.”
Salvistar’s opposite, Karigan thought, but she had never heard of Seastaria.
“She has come to you as aithen, a protective spirit and guide.” Enver still appeared to be incredulous. “You are truly favored. And,” he added, “cursed.”
“Cursed?”
“Great powers interfering in your life.”
Oh, she thought. That was nothing new. But if the day horse could help protect her from Nyssa, it was an interference she could tolerate.
THE AEON IIRE
“The bad air should have cleared by now,” Cole said.
“Let us go see, then,” Grandmother replied.
At last, the excavation had been completed. The massive seal stone had been removed from the chamber of the Aeon Iire, and now she could go see the iire for herself. As she, Cole, and Immerez walked down the passage, their lanterns sent shadows jumping across stone walls.
“I’ve sent a messenger off to Birch,” Immerez said, “requesting reinforcements.”
“That’s fine,” she replied.
Slaves passed in the opposite direction, burdened with the last baskets of rock and soil to be removed, ushered up the passage by guards. Lantern light fell upon the sealed entrances to tombs with their ridiculous iconography of the death god warning away trespassers. Even if Grandmother had wished to gain access to those old burials, she’d no fear of false gods. Westrion held no power over her. In fact, she intended to demonstrate the power she wielded over him.
The passage sloped sharply downward, and Grandmother had the sense of walking toward the center of the Earth. The air grew stuffier, damper, smelled strongly of soil and wet rock. Cole had made the slaves clear the floor so that it was smooth to make the walking easier.
As they approached the chamber, she felt uneasy as she neared the living dark, or rather a dead dark that was yet animate. It wanted to feed on the mind, to steal one’s life force, to destroy and bring suffering into the world. The chronicles of her people, it appeared, had been right about the existence of the portal, the Aeon Iire.
At last they came to a stone archway with the boulder that had blocked it pushed aside. It was not high, nor grand, but roughly hewn of solid granite and incised with more of the glyphs and pictures made by the Sacor Clans of old. Like the high wall that bordered Blackveil Forest, the Sacoridians had neglected other ancient sites such as this one to their peril.
Grandmother and her companions stepped into the chamber beyond the arch, and on the walls of bedrock, the glyphs became more alarming and forbidding, as though they were yelling at her to turn away, to go back. In fact, there was some residue of etherea present in the glyphs that must have once been wards.
The ceiling was low, made also from natural bedrock. She could not imagine what it had taken to carve the chamber. The work of her slaves was nothing in comparison. Staring down from the ceiling was a huge, crudely rendered, but well-preserved image of Westrion, the god of death, his wings spread, his hawk’s eyes sharp. He looked wrathful and ready to slay with his sword any who approached the iire, the supposed portal to one of the underworlds of the heathen Sacoridians.
In the very center of the chamber beneath the image of Westrion was the iire. It was circular in shape, a shield of metal that rested on the ground, but not just any metal, star steel. Forged, it was said, by the god Belasser, who made the stars his furnace. Heathenish legend, of course, but even so, it was a creation of untold magic. Symbols more ancient than even Old Sacoridian, and of some otherworldly tongue, moved fluidly across its shining surface. She could not say precisely what they meant or represented, but she assumed they were protective glyphs of some kind that strengthened the already impregnable seal.
Immerez bent over to look at it, reached out to touch it.
“No!” Grandmother cried. He jumped back. “Do not touch it. There is no telling what would happen to you if you did.” Instant death, she guessed.
She approached the seal herself, feeling its warning like a high-pitched whistle just above her hearing, a pressure in her head. There was also the sensation of dread, of the malfeasance it imprisoned beneath. Demons and dark spirits clawed at it for escape, shrieked for release, hungered for the living. She shuddered. Only a great magic could restrain such wild evil, but there was nothing that couldn’t be broken.
She studied the smooth steel, tried to make sense of the symbols, but they folded and coiled and tangled as they swam across the seal’s surface. They looked alive, if such things could live. There was not a speck of dust on it, no rust, no tarnish, no pitting, or deterioration. Had it weakened, the world would have been endangered, according to the chronicles. She could feel the truth of it.
Though the seal appeared intact and in perfect condition, she observed that a few of the symbols moved sluggishly, as though tired. Or dying. That was very interesting. Very.
On impulse, she produced a brown hair from her pocket, taken from the Green Rider who was the avatar, the avatar who should be protecting the seal. She dropped the hair onto one of the sickly symbols. It curled around the hair, and there was the most subtle of gleams, and the hair was gone. Was it her imagination, or did that one symbol grow just a little more lively? Only a very tiny bit, but still . . .
“Now what?” Immerez asked. “Now that you’ve found this iire thing, what are you going to do?”
“You leave that to me,” she replied. “You worry about our readiness.”
She was so entranced by the symbols swimming across the seal that she was barely aware of Immerez’s departure. Cole had stationed himself at the entrance to the passageway. No one else came or went.
The sluggish symbols, she thought, were the weak point, and she’d have to find a way to exploit it. The longer she stared at the seal, the more she sensed the dark spirits clawing at its underside. They seemed to know she was there, and they were ravenous. Ravenous for flesh, ravenous for souls.
She smiled. There was no time like the present to begin. “Cole, could you please send for my basket with the great working in it?”
“Yes, Grandmother.” He turned up the passage and left her alone.
Once she had the trap set in place, she would bait it by weakening the Aeon Iire. She would need Terrik, and others, for that task.
PREPARING FOR BATTLE
Events were in motion. The best scouts of the River Unit had already been monitoring movements around the Lone Forest. They’d taken out some of Second Empire’s own scouts and messengers who either fought to the death or killed themselves rather than face capture. It meant, Zachary thought with displeasure, that Second Empire was aware of them, expecting them. No matter, it was the new moon, and in the deep of night they would advance, and strike.
He decided he’d wait at the campsite where he’d already spent so much time with Karigan, Estral, and Enver, and use it as their command position. So he rode forth on a sturdy horse of the River Unit, with a borrowed helm and light breastplate, and accompanied by his Weapons, Fiori, Connly, Captain Treman, and Lieutenant Rennard. They left behind a few officers and soldiers to coordinate the advance. It was all carefully done to prevent Sec
ond Empire from knowing exactly how or when the Sacoridians would attack.
They rode through the illusion that guarded the campsite, which was dappled with gentle morning light, and Condor whickered a greeting. Zachary gazed apprehensively at the blue tent. Even though he’d poured all his energy into strategy sessions, concern about Karigan still chafed in the back of his mind. Had Enver been right that Karigan would benefit from the soporific she had swallowed? Or, had she . . . ? No, he dared not think it. The campsite was quiet, but for the arrival of him and his companions. Condor had not sounded distressed, and nothing seemed out of place. He dismounted and Connly took his reins.
Enver emerged from his tent and greeted the arrivals. He looked unperturbed, but he always looked so.
Zachary tried not to sound too anxious. “How is Rider G’ladheon?” After his quick conversation with Estral the other night, he was determined not to sound overly familiar with Karigan in the presence of others.
Enver’s neutral expression could have been read in many different ways, and Zachary’s apprehension only intensified.
“You may see for yourself, Firebrand.” Enver gestured toward the path that led to the hot spring.
Estral, and then Karigan, stepped from the trees and into the campsite. Karigan’s hair was wet, her cheeks flushed. She no longer wore Enver’s shirt and slippers, but her own Rider garb, her greatcoat draped around her shoulders. Relief flowed over Zachary, and he watched her move stiffly and slowly, with Estral at her side to help, but she was alive and up, and the despair that had all but emanated from her appeared to be absent. They stared across the campsite at one another. Her one eye was bright and animated in a way he had not seen in so long. He wished to go right over to her, but he restrained himself.
Horses were led between them, and when once again he could see her, her vibrant gaze was turned away as she and Estral spoke with Fiori, Enver joining them. Zachary removed his helm, and Donal came to help him unbuckle and remove his breastplate. By the time this was done, Karigan was sitting on a log by the fire, and Enver was talking with her. She nodded at some question.
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