Blackveil (42 page)

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Authors: Kristen Britain

Tags: #General, #Fiction, #fantasy, #Epic

BOOK: Blackveil
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“It’s not your fault,” Lady Estora said.
“I put him there.”
“With the agreement of all the other lord-governors. That man was cruel to those border folk. Instead of offering them refuge, he allowed them to be subject to rape, murder, slavery ... even the children.”
Karigan was not sure she had ever heard such passion from Estora, and it appeared the king had not, either, for he paused on the landing with an expression of surprise.
“You acted justly.” Estora’s tone of conviction brooked no argument, and none was forthcoming. She turned to take in the commotion below, just as Karigan had only moments earlier. The king also looked, and Karigan held her breath hoping to remain unnoticed.
“You never did tell me,” Lady Estora said in a much quieter voice.
“Tell you what?”
“What you saw in the looking mask. What you
really
saw.”
“Nothing,” he replied, but even from where Karigan was standing, she could see the lines of tension on his face.
“Please do not be dishonest with me,” Estora said. “It would not be a good way to commence our lives together, hiding things before we’re even married. I have been very honest with you, after all.”
“Very well,” the king replied. “I just did not want to cause you concern.” He hesitated, but Lady Estora’s gaze on him was unflinching. “I saw arrows in flight. Many arrows.”
“Arrows? What does—”
“I do not know what it means,” he said. “Though I cannot think it bodes well. Shall we continue on? I imagine the ball is going to break up now and I’d rather not be detained by those needing to ask a hundred senseless questions.”
They set off down the corridor, leaving Karigan feeling stunned and wondering if she’d paled as much as Estora had at the king’s answer.
Arrows. He’d seen arrows. She had also seen arrows. What did it mean? What did it portend?
Three more Weapons filed by and a fourth paused on the landing and peered at her. It was Fastion. She stepped out from behind the statue.
“You should return to the Rider wing,” he said. “It appears the ball is over.”
“But ... but the assassin!”
“He is in hand and all is well.”
“But—”
“Do not worry,” Fastion said. “We may be Weapons, but we are foremost shields. We defend the king with all our skills and will die for him if necessary.”
Karigan shuddered. Strangely, however, she was more shaken by what King Zachary said he’d seen in the looking mask than by the assassination attempt.
Fastion glanced over his shoulder. “Other guests are now leaving.”
The guests in their masks and finery mounted the stairs, their voices shrill and laughter nervous. Fastion set off down the corridor and Karigan hurried to catch up.
“Fastion,” she said. “How is it you and Donal recognized me in my costume?”
“You were the most out of place, out of your element.”
That was the truth, she thought.
“We are also well acquainted with the way you move.”
“Oh,” she replied, taken aback.
“We would not have permitted you on the balcony with the king if we didn’t recognize you,” Fastion added.
“What? You—” But Fastion turned down another corridor, going his own way without another word.
Why would they have allowed even her? No, she did not want to think about it. Weapons had their ways and reasons, and she was an honorary member of their corps. That had to be it, nothing more.
She struck off for the Rider wing.
 
“Why’s she so glum?” The chair creaked beneath Garth’s weight as he sat down. “She looks like she lost her best stallion—er—friend.”
Why, Karigan wondered, did it seem everyone but her had seen the play
Mad Queen Oddacious?
Currently she sat in the common room of the Rider wing, still in costume, although the mask, fan, and crowned wig were on the table in front of her. Garth, wet and muddy from the road, had only just arrived from his latest errand. Yates and Tegan had just heard her rather spare account of the masquerade ball. She’d left out certain details, like her visions in the mask and her encounter with Lord Amberhill. Maybe she’d tell Mara later if they had a moment alone.
“She didn’t lose her best friend,” Yates said. “She’s just mad that this time she wasn’t the one who got to save the king.”
Karigan rolled her eyes.
“Save the king?” Garth demanded. “Something happen while I was gone? Is that why the guards harassed and challenged me all the way across castle grounds?”
Karigan was obliged to recite, once again, her account of the assassination attempt.
“Huh,” Garth said. “A king is apt to make enemies. Those D’Ivarys were a bad bunch, abusing people the way they did.”
“Those
D’Ivarys,” Tegan emphasized. “The current lord-governor is not of that ilk. Anyway the Weapons kept the king safe, which is their job, and his reign goes on.”
Karigan wished she could be that calm about it. She knew the attack had been clumsy and the assassin didn’t have a chance with all those Weapons to protect the king, but what if circumstances had been different?
And Garth was right—a king was apt to make enemies. There would be other attempts on the king’s life and there was not a single thing she could do about it. If it came down to it, she would not hesitate to give her life for his, and not just because he was her sovereign and what it would mean for the country.
I am hopeless,
she thought.
“Queen Oddacious looks ready to retire for the night,” Yates said.
Karigan yawned and stood. “She already has.”
She left the common room for her own chamber. On her bed she found Ghost Kitty waiting for her, belly up and purring. It was with much relief that minutes later she was in her nightclothes and joined him.
T
hat was an eventful end to the evening,
Amberhill thought as he stepped outside of the castle’s main entrance.
The assassin hadn’t even gotten close to Zachary before the Weapons were on him like a cloud of wasps. He’d seen the young man earlier and wondered about his nervousness. Now he knew.
Several carriages were picking up ladies and gentlemen as they filed out of the castle and down the stairs to the drive. The usual complement of guards at the door was doubled, and they were not permitting anyone back inside.
Amberhill shrugged and espying his own carriage pulling up, set off down the stairs, finally removing his mask when he reached the bottom. The carriage door swung open and inside Yap awaited him, looking bleary-eyed, as though he’d had a good long nap.
“Ready to go home, sir?”
Amberhill stepped up into the carriage and sat across from Yap. “It will be home no longer,” he said. His ring had been quiet during the ball, but now he felt it pulling on him.
“Sir?”
“The ocean, Mister Yap. That is where we are bound.”
Yap grinned. “Aye, sir!”
DARK ANGEL
G
randmother pulled her cloak about her shoulders, almost too weak to manage even that much by herself. Immediately Lala was by her side helping her.
“Good child,” Grandmother said, patting the girl’s hand. “Good, good child.”
They were still in the cave, the dreary cursed cave, for Grandmother had been too ill to travel, too feeble to even move. Some days ago a welt had formed on her hand—a spider bite, she suspected—and excruciating body aches and fever followed. She dimly remembered directing Min to lance the welt and make a poultice with herbs from her pack to extract the poison. Evil dreams paraded through her mind, of being entwined in her own yarn, of it burning, burning, burning into her flesh, and of dark creatures feeding on her while she screamed; images of gore and horror that made her shiver still.
Then one day, thanks to the ministrations of her faithful people, she awoke. She simply awoke weak, hungry, and parched. So they lingered in the relative safety of the cave while she recuperated, she cursing her frailty and every moment they lost in their quest to rouse the Sleepers. If only she could stir herself to full strength.
Instead she was a feeble old woman with skin sagging from bones, unable to even place her cloak on her own shoulders.
Deglin maintained the fire just to keep her warm. He’d dared venture outside to collect more wood. He didn’t go far, didn’t go beyond her wards, which, thank God, did not fail while she was sick.
“Somethin’ out there,” he muttered to her once. “Keepin’ an eye on us.”
Yes, there were Watchers. She would deal with them when need be, but at the moment she was more interested in what
she
could watch. She wanted to look into the fire—perhaps God would speak to her again, provide guidance.
“Lala, child,” she said, “fetch my yarn.”
Lala scampered away and was back in seconds with the yarn basket. Grandmother picked through the balls of yarn with shaky hands. This would not do.
“Child,” she said. “You will have to help me tie knots. I’m not yet steady.” She did not like to think what kind of disaster a mistake could cause, with the etherea of this place so unstable.
Lala had learned well from watching all the time and playing her string games. Her nimble little fingers flew with each knot Grandmother named. Sometimes she’d have to prompt Lala to the form when the girl paused, her young face perplexed. “Remember the knot where the bunny goes into the hole?” Lala would then solemnly nod and finish the knot.
When Lala tied the last one, Grandmother took the snarl of red yarn and inspected it closely. Yes, her clever, dear grandchild had done very well. But now, she wondered, would it work for her since she had not done the actual tying herself? She’d tried to project her intent into the knots as Lala worked, but she wasn’t sure it was enough. So she yanked some of her wiry gray hairs from her head and wove them into the snarl best as she could, impressing her intent upon it. Then she tossed it into the fire and stared and prayed.
She must have stared for a long time for she dozed off. Her awareness of her people fell away and the world turned gray, yet she was still aware of the crackle of fire. Shapeless dreams, lacking the violence of her fever dreams, came and went like dancers waltzing across a ballroom floor.
A face intruded on her dreams, formed just beyond the flames. It was a masked face. Grandmother jolted fully awake and found the face wasn’t a dream at all.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
Behind the mask, haunting eyes stared back at her. Just stared. What did it mean? Who would come to her in such a form?
“Who are you?” Sweat dripped down Grandmother’s temple. The jovial red sequins and feathers of the mask mocked her.
The entity did not answer; it just stared.
In a more pleading tone, Grandmother asked, “
What
are you?”
The flames flared and the mask was replaced by a visored and winged helm of steel so bright it almost hurt to look upon it. Live symbols swarmed and wiggled across the steel, symbols the like of which she had never seen before and therefore could not interpret.

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