First Rider's Call

No!

Lil blinked at her.

No, Karigan said. I thought . . . She had never imagined seeing the First Rider die this way; maybe in the glory of battle, but not in a sickroom, not from birthing . . .

Breckett beckoned a moon priest into the chamber, who began murmuring scripture at the foot of the bed.

“No child,” Lil gasped. “No legacy . . .”

The king tried to hush her so she might spare her energy.

“Delirious,” the mender said.

Karigan knew Lil wasn’t delirious. She was grieving. She touched her brooch and felt weak resonance within it.

You have a legacy, a great one, Karigan told her. I am your legacy, and so is every Green Rider through every generation a thousand years into the future.

Karigan told her of how the Riders were integral to the League’s victory during the Long War. She spoke of how Lil Ambrioth was a celebrated hero in her own time, and continued to inspire Riders and non-Riders alike. She spoke of other courageous Riders who followed in her footsteps, helping to fend off tyranny.

As Westrion’s wingbeats threatened to drown her out, she shouted to be heard.

We exist a thousand years from now because of you!

Lil’s face grew peaceful at Karigan’s words. “It is good then . . .”

Her luminous spirit began to separate and lift from her body. Karigan became frantic, overwhelmed with a sense that if Lil slipped away now, all those things she had described would not come to pass.

The shadow of Westrion’s wings engulfed the chamber.

No! Karigan cried. Please! The Riders still need you—without you, all is lost!

Lil’s spirit hovered in place, as if undecided. The priest droned on the rites of death. The king spoke quietly to Lil, but Karigan could not hear his words over the wingbeats. The mender began to pour his concoction into a goblet.

Karigan couldn’t let them poison her. She launched herself around the bed and tried to knock the goblet out of the mender’s hands, but her hands passed through his wrists.

This can’t happen!

Remembering the last time she had traveled to the past, remembering how she had been able to handle a sword from that time, she grabbed Breckett’s longknife from its sheath and rapped the mender’s knuckles hard. The poison toppled from his hands, splattering across the floor.

The mender was too stunned to move and could only stare at the puddle on the floor. Breckett patted his empty knife sheath, and the priest’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head.

“The gods—” he sputtered.

Lil’s spirit wavered above her body, and Westrion’s wings pounded the air.

A WINTER’S DREAM

Uxton jabbed Karigan in the ribs with the Toe of his boot. She groaned, for every part of her body hurt and she was freezing. He kicked her again, and she raised her head with a grunt.

Uxton’s eyes were wild in the light of the lamp he carried. Ghosts whirled around and through him, tugging on his hair, moaning in his ears.

Death to the empire, death to the Black One, death to the empire . . .

The ghosts gained energy in their frenzy, and grew more obvious in shape and form. Uxton was pale and trembling, and even slashed his sword through them, which, of course, accomplished nothing.

The ghosts, as if sensing the effect they were having on him, made their chant more gruesome: Find the one, the empire’s spawn, strip his flesh and clean the bones, grind to dust and feed to dogs . . .

“Get up,” Uxton commanded, his voice strained. He lowered his sword blade and nicked Karigan’s neck with its tip. Blood, warm against her freezing flesh, burned along the contour of her throat.

Find his heart and eat it whole . . .

A tic spasmed in Uxton’s cheek.

“Where are your friends?” Karigan asked.

“Doesn’t matter.” He grimaced as a ghost reached into his ear up to its elbow, and twisted. His eyes rolled back and he shook his head violently.

Karigan guessed Uxton’s compatriots could not bear the ghosts, that they had abandoned him, the corridors, and their mission.

“Get up,” Uxton ordered, teeth gritted.

“Or what?” Karigan was so weary, not so far from darkness. The traveling always seemed to drain her life’s energy.

“Or I will batter you and drag you out.”

Karigan shifted and realized with surprise there was an object in her hand.

Uxton raised his sword to land a blow on her. She rolled, evaded his blade, and drove the object into his foot, through boot leather, through stocking, through flesh and bone. He howled and the lamp careened into the air, its light flickering out before it crashed to the floor.

As Karigan sank into nothingness, she heard Uxton whimpering some distance away, and ghostly laughter tickled her ear.

The snow waned to a gentle flurry. Of all the things Laren had witnessed during her life, this was, well, one of the most “magical.” Outside she had left a sunny late summer day, only to find winter within. Snow drifted against the corridor walls, and statues wore fresh mantles of white.

Servants shoveled paths through the corridors, and she saw more than one snowball arcing through the air. In fact, one almost hit her in the head. There was much laughter and merriment in the castle, the like of which she ordinarily associated with holidays.

The merriment, she thought, was preferable to the fear such a strange occurrence could have as easily inspired.

She permitted herself a smile, an unaccustomed use of her facial muscles. For her own part, she had not felt happier, more free, in what seemed like a hundred years. The spirit of Gwyer Warhein had taught her how to block out the insanity that had been feeding on her mind. The block worked so well she sensed nothing wrong with her ability at all. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">