Speaking of good news, Mara decided, as she wove her way through corridors busy with holiday revelers, that she would not tell Karigan the news of battles, of Riders who had died, about Estral Andovian’s loss of speech, or that Estral’s father, the Golden Guardian of Selium, was missing. No, that sort of news could wait. Unless Karigan specifically asked, of course. Mara would not lie to her.
When she reached the mending wing, she found its halls filled with the scent of healing herbs and the atmosphere hushed. It was something of a sanctuary, although, when she was here for so long while being treated for her burns, she’d thought of it more as a prison.
“Are you looking for Rider G’ladheon?” an apprentice asked.
“Yes,” Mara replied.
“Fifth door on the right.”
“Thank you. How is she doing?”
“I believe she is doing well. Earlier, she requested a pen, ink, and paper.”
That was good, Mara thought. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d find when she saw Karigan, but requesting writing implements sounded ordinary and reassuring. Perhaps she wanted to write to her father.
But when she entered Karigan’s room, she saw how very wrong she was. The papers were scattered around, dark with ink. Apparently the paper had not been enough, for Karigan had written on her arm, her nightgown, the bed sheets, and was adding words to the wall.
“Karigan?” Mara said from the doorway. “What are you—?”
Karigan turned. The bandage over her eye was disconcerting, though not as disconcerting as seeing her covered in her own writing.
“Mara?” Karigan hurried over and halted, her one eye darting about. She raised an ink-stained hand to touch Mara’s face—the side scarred by flame.
“What are you doing?” Mara asked. She needed to get a mender in here. Her friend had gone mad.
“Burned face,” Karigan murmured. “Fastion. Fastion had a burned face.” She hurried back to the wall to write on it some more.
Mara followed her. Much of it was ordinary writing—lists, names, places, but a certain amount was garbled with odd symbols, almost as if from some unknown language.
“Karigan, what is all of this?”
“Enmorial. Memory, before it all fades. Before it’s unmade.” She scribbled on the wall and snapped the nib. “Damnation.”
That sounded more like Karigan, but then she started pacing in a circle. “Cade, Cade, Cade,” she muttered.
Mara did not know whether to shake Karigan or slap her. She was about to fetch a mender when Karigan halted and looked up. “I need to tell them!”
Before Mara could stop her, Karigan ran, ran right past her and down the corridor, ink-blotched nightgown fluttering around her.
THE TALE IS TOLD
Mara tore after Karigan, who ran like a berserker through the mending wing corridors. The poor menders did not understand what was happening fast enough to stop her. She ran out of the mending wing into the throngs of cheery revelers who laughed and pointed at her as someone who had been celebrating too much. She shoved aside anyone who got in her way, causing some angry words.
Down stairs, across corridors, along side halls Karigan flew. When Mara realized where she was going, she put on a new burst of speed, but could not catch up. When Karigan reached the doors to the throne room, the guards were too astonished and slow to react. The Weapons, in contrast, merely watched as Karigan bolted through the entryway.
Curious.
The guards blocked Mara, however. “That is Rider G’ladheon,” she gasped. “Needs help.”
“Clearly,” one of the guards said acerbically, and let her through.
The throne room was occupied by the king and his advisors, meeting with the lord-governors gathered for the holiday—except for Timas Mirwell who was, she’d heard, sequestered in his rooms recovering from scalding burns.
Everyone glanced up as Karigan burst in among them. Thankfully, the captain was present. The lord-governors exclaimed at the interruption of the obviously mad woman running amok in the throne room. Karigan dropped to her knees before the daïs, and King Zachary rose, his mouth open, but was unable to speak.
Mara skidded to a halt behind Karigan, panting hard. For someone who had been through who-knew-what and had just run pretty much the length of the castle, Karigan did not seem to be out of breath.
“What is this?” demanded Castellan Javian. He was a severe man with steel gray hair, and his manner was as sharp as his voice, a deep contrast to his predecessor, Sperren.
“Karigan? Rider G’ladheon?” the king asked, still incredulous. He stepped down the daïs to help her rise. “Last I heard you were resting.”
“I must tell you, before I forget.”
“Karigan—” the captain began, concern clear on her face. “Maybe you should rest some more. You can talk to us later.”
“No! Now, before I forget.”
Before Javian could register a protest, the king stayed him with a look. “Castellan, please adjourn the meeting for me.”
“Yes, sire.”
The lord-governors were ushered out, while Mara explained to the captain what had transpired. A robe was sent for, to cloak Karigan, who still did not appear to be cognizant of the irregularity of her appearance, especially in front of her king and other important personages.
When the lord-governors were gone, Karigan looked at Javian and Colin Dovekey’s replacement, Tallman.
“I don’t know these men,” she said. “I don’t want them here.”