First Rider's Call
Page 111
The fire surrounded her, but behind her she knew was the window that looked out over the pasture; the view Karigan so favored.
The wraith crept closer. “We seek the Galadheon.”
Laren stood stricken, unable to react. Icy cold. A spell? She tried to shout for help, but where once her voice was strong and sure, it now failed her.
She smelled smoke, and tore her eyes from the wraith. An orange glow flooded the pasture side of barracks.
Fire!
A howl sounded from within. The dark one stopped its advance and threw its head back and loosed a scream in answer. Laren scrunched her eyes closed and covered her ears, trying to block the sound.
When the cry died, she opened her eyes. The wraith was gone.
Flames poked through the roof of barracks, smoke pouring out black and thick.
She had stood frozen in place with her fear of the wraith, but now she shook it off—barracks was burning.
Glass smashed on the pasture side of the building. Laren ran toward the sound and found a figure on the ground, trying to get up, and falling back down. It was on fire.
Laren tore off her cloak as she ran to aid the—it was a woman. A Green Rider? Karigan?
A Rider, yes, Laren saw. Mara, not Karigan.
Mara crawled atop glass shards that shimmered in a golden, fractured reflection of the fire. The Rider was on fire, and it was spreading.
Laren threw her cloak on Mara to smother the flames.
A Weapon appeared, running down the corridor. He spoke rapidly with the woman presently guarding the king.
“What is it?” the king asked.
At once the Weapons started hustling him down the corridor. “Trouble on the castle grounds, sire.”
“Come, Lady Estora,” the first Weapon commanded.
Another Weapon appeared from nowhere, as they were apt to do, and shepherded Estora down the corridor after King Zachary.
Before long she found herself in the west wing, in the private apartments of the king, being escorted past all the portraits of Sacoridia’s monarchs; the very place she had wished to avoid.
“I want to know what is happening,” King Zachary informed the third Weapon as he strode toward his apartments.
“Yes, sire. We shall tell you when we know more.”
As Estora followed the king into his inner sanctum, Weapons appeared from the very cracks and corners of the corridor, falling in behind to provide a rear guard. She peered over her shoulder and counted twelve, then thirteen, and fourteen. Thick pile carpet silenced their purposeful strides.
“Come, my lady,” the Weapon who escorted her said in a firm but courteous tone. She cupped her elbow in her hand to hurry her along.
Soon they spilled into the king’s parlor. Four Weapons remained inside with them, quickly taking places along opposite walls. The others withdrew, closing the thick doors as they did so. The king helped her into a comfortable armchair. Finally she allowed herself to take a couple of deep breaths.
The king sat opposite her, crossing his long legs. He tapped his fingers on his armrest. The terrier laid down obediently at his feet.
“I’ve felt uneasy all evening,” he murmured, “as though something were about to happen.”
A sleepy-eyed servant brought them some steaming tea. Estora sipped hers gratefully, feeling weary. It had turned into a long night and the energy that had sent her strolling around the castle in the first place was thoroughly drained.
It was quiet in the king’s parlor, except for the occasional panting of the terrier. The thick stone walls and heavy doors muted all else. Caught up in his own thoughts, the king stared into his teacup as if he could divine what was occurring outside.
Estora’s mother would be appalled she didn’t initiate some form of polite conversation to distract the king from his worry. It is an art form, her mother had explained. Estora’s father in turn would be furious she didn’t use this opportunity to cultivate the king’s interest with her charm. King Zachary, however, did not strike her as the sort of man to put up with such inane chatter.
And certainly not now.
No, not the way he sat engrossed in his own thoughts. He would not take kindly to an intrusion just now.
Instead, she kept her peace, taking in her surroundings. The last time she had been in the west wing with her cousin, they had visited the king in a different, more formal parlor.
This one was remarkable for its lack of armament as decor. Over the hearth hung a maritime scene—not a battle, but a fully rigged ship with sails bent in a rigorous sea. Another painting depicted a scene of Hillander terriers at hunt. She always imagined men of power displaying warlike ornament throughout their private quarters as well.
Battle tapestries sewn by the nimble and graceful hands of ladies. Her own needlework was very fine and precise.
She liked the king’s private parlor, with its heavy leather chairs and the dark colors and hunting scenes, but it still seemed odd that it lacked weaponry or any hint of Zachary’s position as king.
Then she recalled her own father’s manor house. All the public areas frequented by visitors did exhibit the usual display of power. Yet he allowed her mother to govern the family quarters. There was only a hint of battle in the decor when some ancestor figured in a prominent way.
King Zachary smiled as he noticed her wandering gaze. “Has something caught your eye?”
“No. Well, actually, yes. You’ve no shields or swords hanging about.”
He patted his leg and the terrier leaped onto his lap. He scratched the dog’s belly, much to its evident delight. “You should have seen it during my grandmother’s reign.” He rolled his eyes. “The place looked like an armory.”
The wraith crept closer. “We seek the Galadheon.”
Laren stood stricken, unable to react. Icy cold. A spell? She tried to shout for help, but where once her voice was strong and sure, it now failed her.
She smelled smoke, and tore her eyes from the wraith. An orange glow flooded the pasture side of barracks.
Fire!
A howl sounded from within. The dark one stopped its advance and threw its head back and loosed a scream in answer. Laren scrunched her eyes closed and covered her ears, trying to block the sound.
When the cry died, she opened her eyes. The wraith was gone.
Flames poked through the roof of barracks, smoke pouring out black and thick.
She had stood frozen in place with her fear of the wraith, but now she shook it off—barracks was burning.
Glass smashed on the pasture side of the building. Laren ran toward the sound and found a figure on the ground, trying to get up, and falling back down. It was on fire.
Laren tore off her cloak as she ran to aid the—it was a woman. A Green Rider? Karigan?
A Rider, yes, Laren saw. Mara, not Karigan.
Mara crawled atop glass shards that shimmered in a golden, fractured reflection of the fire. The Rider was on fire, and it was spreading.
Laren threw her cloak on Mara to smother the flames.
A Weapon appeared, running down the corridor. He spoke rapidly with the woman presently guarding the king.
“What is it?” the king asked.
At once the Weapons started hustling him down the corridor. “Trouble on the castle grounds, sire.”
“Come, Lady Estora,” the first Weapon commanded.
Another Weapon appeared from nowhere, as they were apt to do, and shepherded Estora down the corridor after King Zachary.
Before long she found herself in the west wing, in the private apartments of the king, being escorted past all the portraits of Sacoridia’s monarchs; the very place she had wished to avoid.
“I want to know what is happening,” King Zachary informed the third Weapon as he strode toward his apartments.
“Yes, sire. We shall tell you when we know more.”
As Estora followed the king into his inner sanctum, Weapons appeared from the very cracks and corners of the corridor, falling in behind to provide a rear guard. She peered over her shoulder and counted twelve, then thirteen, and fourteen. Thick pile carpet silenced their purposeful strides.
“Come, my lady,” the Weapon who escorted her said in a firm but courteous tone. She cupped her elbow in her hand to hurry her along.
Soon they spilled into the king’s parlor. Four Weapons remained inside with them, quickly taking places along opposite walls. The others withdrew, closing the thick doors as they did so. The king helped her into a comfortable armchair. Finally she allowed herself to take a couple of deep breaths.
The king sat opposite her, crossing his long legs. He tapped his fingers on his armrest. The terrier laid down obediently at his feet.
“I’ve felt uneasy all evening,” he murmured, “as though something were about to happen.”
A sleepy-eyed servant brought them some steaming tea. Estora sipped hers gratefully, feeling weary. It had turned into a long night and the energy that had sent her strolling around the castle in the first place was thoroughly drained.
It was quiet in the king’s parlor, except for the occasional panting of the terrier. The thick stone walls and heavy doors muted all else. Caught up in his own thoughts, the king stared into his teacup as if he could divine what was occurring outside.
Estora’s mother would be appalled she didn’t initiate some form of polite conversation to distract the king from his worry. It is an art form, her mother had explained. Estora’s father in turn would be furious she didn’t use this opportunity to cultivate the king’s interest with her charm. King Zachary, however, did not strike her as the sort of man to put up with such inane chatter.
And certainly not now.
No, not the way he sat engrossed in his own thoughts. He would not take kindly to an intrusion just now.
Instead, she kept her peace, taking in her surroundings. The last time she had been in the west wing with her cousin, they had visited the king in a different, more formal parlor.
This one was remarkable for its lack of armament as decor. Over the hearth hung a maritime scene—not a battle, but a fully rigged ship with sails bent in a rigorous sea. Another painting depicted a scene of Hillander terriers at hunt. She always imagined men of power displaying warlike ornament throughout their private quarters as well.
Battle tapestries sewn by the nimble and graceful hands of ladies. Her own needlework was very fine and precise.
She liked the king’s private parlor, with its heavy leather chairs and the dark colors and hunting scenes, but it still seemed odd that it lacked weaponry or any hint of Zachary’s position as king.
Then she recalled her own father’s manor house. All the public areas frequented by visitors did exhibit the usual display of power. Yet he allowed her mother to govern the family quarters. There was only a hint of battle in the decor when some ancestor figured in a prominent way.
King Zachary smiled as he noticed her wandering gaze. “Has something caught your eye?”
“No. Well, actually, yes. You’ve no shields or swords hanging about.”
He patted his leg and the terrier leaped onto his lap. He scratched the dog’s belly, much to its evident delight. “You should have seen it during my grandmother’s reign.” He rolled his eyes. “The place looked like an armory.”
