“I bring it up,” she said, “for Karigan’s sake. Rumors could prove damaging to her.”
She left him then, and he mulled over her words. Many nobles kept mistresses—they were open secrets. Many kings before him had, as well. The idea of mistresses never reflected poorly on the man, but there was always a different standard for the woman, and yes, rumors could damage Karigan’s effectiveness as a Green Rider and make life very difficult for her. They would also hurt Estora. But it was true, Karigan—no matter how he felt about her—was most definitely not his mistress, and he had no wish for her to be regarded as such.
The Weapons would maintain silence as was their wont, and which was expected of them by the oaths they took. Estral would not hurt her friend by spreading rumors, either. Lord Fiori, who must guess at his feelings, was a master of discretion. Of the Riders, he did not believe rumor would spread beyond their ranks. They had guarded Estora’s secret affair with F’ryan Coblebay well enough, after all. The soldiers of the River Unit? That was an entirely different situation.
He must conduct himself with great care for his sake, Estora’s sake, and especially for Karigan’s sake. They were no longer on their own in the wilderness. The River Unit had arrived, and he had to be king again.
GHOSTS
She felt Nyssa trying to scratch at her mind even in the depths, pursuing her, trying to fill her with venom. Karigan tried to escape, but Nyssa surrounded her, closed in, suffocated her.
“You cannot escape me, Greenie.”
No, it seemed she could not.
But even as Nyssa moved in, the clarion notes of a horn rang out through the darkness and roused Karigan. It was the Rider call, and she must answer. Nyssa hesitated, and Karigan took the opportunity to hurtle right past her and toward the sound, toward light. The light grew and grew until she was within it, and she found herself standing beneath a tree looking down into a valley. The silence was beautiful.
“Indura Luin,” Siris Kiltyre said beside her, his hand resting on the twisted horn of the Green Riders that hung over his shoulder. “Or rather, what remains after Mornhavon the Black drained it.”
Indura Luin was the name, in the old tongue, of a lake that once existed there, Mirror of the Moon, in the common. It had been of spiritual importance to the Sacor Clans, which was why Mornhavon had drained it. Now the valley was simply known as the Lost Lake.
Karigan remembered the tree she was standing beneath. She and Alton had picnicked beneath it five years ago. It had turned into an eventful day, for Shawdell the Eletian had lain in wait on the opposite ridge to ambush the king as he and his party hunted in the valley.
“We are holding the torturer at bay,” Siris said.
We? A haze formed around them, and then resolved into the ghostly figures of Green Riders, some mounted on phantom steeds, others afoot, their uniforms and weaponry of ages past and present. It was apt, she thought, for on that day five years ago, ghosts had helped her and Alton fight off Shawdell.
A few of the ghosts grew more solid in her vision than others—Joy Overway, Osric M’Grew, Yates Cardell, Ereal M’Farthon, and others she had known. F’ryan Coblebay stood more distant. She looked for one face in particular among the misty shifting mass, but could not find it.
Siris seemed to know whom she sought. “The First Rider is still answering for her transgressions and is not allowed.”
Transgressions she had committed on Karigan’s behalf.
“You must fight the torturer with all your power,” Siris said. “You are the avatar of Westrion.”
“She is everywhere.”
“She is not here.”
Not here, not here, not here . . . the ghosts murmured.
“You were hurt,” Siris said, “and tormented, but there is no time to waste feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Feeling sorry—?”
“As I’ve told you before, listen to the half-Eletian, let him guide you so you may strengthen your mind and resolve yourself to be rid of the torturer.”
“But—”
“Rider, you are an avatar of Westrion. I have tried to impart wisdom that may aid you in that capacity. Always remember it is you who must command the ghosts, not the other way around. Remember that some will attempt to mislead you. Remember that the gods do not always have your best interests at heart, only their own.”
He stepped forward, placed his hand on her shoulder. It was cold.
“We will watch over you while you recover,” he said, “but after that, you are on your own.”
The Rider ghosts closed around her, touched her hands, her shoulders, her back. Yates caressed her cheek and gave her a long, unfathomable gaze, and then they were gone. It was not so much that they vanished, but that she was absorbed into a dark, peaceful slumber.
THE DAY HORSE
Karigan accepted the cup of tea from Estral. She was still groggy and had a dull headache, but the long, deep sleep made her feel stronger. Estral told her she’d slept for two solid days. Nyssa was still there trying to scratch her way back in, but the blockade of Rider ghosts held strong.
Had they actually been real? Those dreams with Siris Kiltyre? He had called her “avatar,” and there was something she had to do. Something to do with ghosts. The strange fragments of dream images made no sense.
“You do look better.” Estral’s voice wasn’t hushed because she was trying to be quiet, but because the gift of Idris was fading. “More color in your cheeks. Feel up to eating some eggs?”