“Well, well, Captain,” he said.
Laren pointed her bloody saber at him. “I know your part in this, Lord-Governor.”
The guard D’rang sat nervously playing with his reins, but Beryl sat there unmoving, her eyes glassy and empty. Her winged horse brooch was missing. The captain tried to read her, but found nothing but a barrier, a very dark barrier.
“I have anticipated the moment when we could meet this way,” Mirwell said, “when I didn’t have to hide my thoughts from you.”
“Oh, I’ve known well enough how you’ve felt about me,” Laren said with a tight smile. “I just had to read the expression on your face, but you kept your other secrets well enough. It’s all over.”
“I daresay it is not.” Mirwell glanced up at the ridge and Laren followed his gaze.
Through the gloom of ghosts, two figures could be seen battling one another. Gold hair flashed on one of the combatants—the Eletian of course. The other was not so easy to make out at first, but then the clash of ghosts shifted, and through a thinning of the supernatural fog, she could see her.
“Karigan,” she whispered.
“Yes, the very same Greenie who made off with the message,” Mirwell said. “I’ll be very glad when the Gray One finishes her off, for all the trouble she has caused me. Her family will suffer when I take L’Petrie Province, you can believe that. Merchant clan, humph.”
Laren wasn’t paying attention. She considered riding up the ridge to help Karigan, but somehow, she felt that it was beyond her, that in the end, she would be of no help. It was Karigan’s battle. Hers and the Eletian’s. Instead, she looked to Mirwell again.
“Dismount,” she told him. Only D’rang complied, and the governor glared at him.
“Spence,” Mirwell said. “The captain has annoyed me for the last time. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.” Beryl drew her long sword.
Laren looked incredulously from Beryl to Mirwell. “What have you done to her?”
Mirwell smiled at Beryl like an indulgent parent. “Nothing,” he said. “Or at least, less than I would have liked. But the Gray One wished to ensure her loyalty to the great province of Mirwell and its lord.”
Beryl held her sword at the ready, her expression deadpan.
“Beryl,” Laren said. “It’s me, Captain Mapstone.”
Beryl did not even blink before she swung the blade. The captain barely deflected the blow. Bluebird backed off to help weaken its force. Laren licked her lips. Beryl had been on the verge of initiating swordmaster training when the brooch had called her. Her skill with the sword was well known.
“Kill her, Spence,” Mirwell said.
“Yes, my lord.”
Beryl jammed her heels into her horse, and she sprang broadside into Bluebird. Laren felt the strain of bones in her leg, reawakening the pain of the bloody wound inflicted on her by the groundmite. Bluebird fought to maintain his footing.
The long sword came again, swinging like a scythe. Laren backed and backed under the assault. The exhausting run and the melee with the groundmites had tired her beyond reason, slowing her reflexes. Oh, how her body hurt.
A hard blow jangled the nerves all the way to Laren’s teeth, and she knew that soon, Beryl would take her. The tip of the long sword swished perilously close to her chest and when she brought her saber in closer to guard herself, she realized her mistake, for the move was not completed. It was an advanced technique swordmasters called the “curve.” It took great strength and control, after sweeping the sword across the opponent’s chest, to reverse the momentum of the slash and bring it back across the opponent’s neck.
Laren ducked, but not enough, and she felt a burning across her scalp, and then she was blinded by her own blood running into her eyes. She rubbed them, but Beryl rammed her horse into Bluebird again. The poor exhausted horse toppled over, and Laren rolled clear. She felt around for her saber, but a boot stepped on her hand.
Laren blinked her eyes clear. Beryl stood above her with the sword raised. Mirwell’s laughter could be heard over her own hard breaths.
Karigan’s head buzzed and she fought against fainting, wrapped in the searing pain. The energy of the Eletian’s magic burned her inside and out like hot, writhing coals. She saw images of her charred flesh exploding open and molten fire pouring out.
She saw other images of the Berry sisters, weaving between the pale faces of ghosts, looking at her kindly, clucking and shaking their heads. The child looks out of sorts, Miss Bunch said. Do not be too harsh on her, Miss Bay said. She may have failed, but she did try. Arms Master Rendle shared a cup of tea with the ladies. You forgot to watch your back, he told her.
Her friend Estral sat in her dorm room plucking a lute. I will write a song in your memory, she assured her. Abram Rust sat next to her and blew smoke rings. The tree fell long ago, he said.
Torne and Garroty crowded her vision, pushing away even the ghosts. You deserve this. Die, Greenie.
And the ghosts whispered, Break the arrows.
Die, Greenie, Torne said. Die.
Break the arrows.
Karigan stopped struggling. She just wanted to sleep and not wake up. Why did everyone keep nagging her?
Break the arrows. She felt the pressure of all those ghosts crowding her.
Shawdell nocked an arrow to the bow string. His lips moved as if he spoke a prayer over it.
Karigan saw an image of King Zachary sitting on his throne patting a ghost dog on his lap. The ghosts massed behind him and oozed around the edges of his chair. He looked up toward the ceiling where an artist lay on scaffolding, painting his portrait. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was not his voice she heard.