“But Pyram’s—he’s just kennel master and Amilton is—”
“A prince? Amilton is a boy. Your grandmother agrees with Pyram, and if Amilton makes trouble, he will have her to answer to. And she’s the queen! His cruelty has cost him the privilege of going anywhere near the dogs.”
Zachary, little Zachary, sniffed. “Really?”
Captain Mapstone—Karigan couldn’t think of her as otherwise—nodded. “Really.”
The boy hugged her. “Thanks, Laren!”
A bright smile crossed her face, and it occurred to Karigan she had never seen the captain smile so naturally or easily.
“Now, why don’t we find Joss before his nerves turn his hair gray?”
Zachary screwed up his face. “Why can’t you be my Weapon?”
Captain Mapstone laughed. Again, it was astonishingly natural. “Because I’m a Rider, and the queen needs Riders, too. Joss is nice to you, isn’t he?”
“He’s an old statue.”
Captain Mapstone snorted and tousled Zachary’s hair. “That’s the way Weapons are. That’s how they’re trained to be. Can you see me like that?”
Zachary shook his head. “I want you to stay the way you are.”
“Good. But don’t forget how important Weapons are. Remember they need to keep a distance in order to protect you, and that they are very skilled at their jobs.”
“I’ll ’member,” Zachary said.
“Excellent. Now, my little moonling, let’s go before Joss gets in trouble for losing you again. Besides, don’t you think it’s a little spooky back here?” She looked in Karigan’s direction, but her gaze went right through her.
“I bet there’s lots of ghosts here.” He sounded hopeful.
“I suppose,” Captain Mapstone said, with markedly less enthusiasm than her young ward. They rose and started down the corridor hand in hand, the captain bearing the lamp. “Let me tell you a thing or two about dealing with brothers. I have four big brothers and two little brothers, so I do have some expertise in the area . . .”
Karigan watched after them. Was—was she really viewing something that had occurred in the distant past? Had she really just looked upon younger versions of King Zachary and Captain Mapstone?
I have known him since he was a boy, the captain had told her. The change time had wrought in them both was stunning. The easy-going young Laren Mapstone was now the captain who wore her cares as a mantle, and the boy who cared so deeply for a dog had grown into a confident man who cared passionately for Sacoridia and its people.
Before the light diminished, she trotted off after them, for she didn’t wish to be stranded alone in the dark, no matter she could not communicate with them. But even as they walked away chatting gaily, a formal procession of Weapons approached. Karigan thought Zachary and Captain Mapstone would collide with the Weapons for they seemed unaware of one another’s approach, but they merged, and the captain and Zachary faded out of existence.
The floor rocked beneath Karigan’s feet. Hoofbeats surged in her mind. No, no, it was the marching feet of the Weapons. She steadied herself against the wall. This, at least, was real and remained constant. An anchor.
The Weapons were almost upon her. One in front wearing a formal black tabard bore a torch and a light blue standard with a seagull emblazoned on it, its wings outstretched in flight. Above the seagull was an embroidered gold crown.
Six Weapons marched briskly behind, their faces grim. They carried a bier laden with a body draped in a gauzy shroud. Upon the body’s chest rested a gold crown embedded with glittering jewels. Torches hissed and roiled as the formation swept past Karigan, leaving behind a haze of oily smoke.
She started to follow them, but another light came from behind, and she paused.
Two men approached. One wore the long, flowing white robes of a high priest of the moon, and carried a lantern. Beside him hobbled a bent old man dressed in the robes of a castellan. He leaned on what appeared to be the very staff of office Sperren used during ceremonial occasions.
Their murmuring rose and fell as the marching feet of the Weapons faded away.
“We must see his soul safely into the hands of Westrion,” the priest said, “no matter his deeds in life, or his legacy.”
“Of course.” The castellan’s voice was a low rumble. “And Westrion shall have him. If we’d gone the normal route, the mobs would’ve desecrated his body and stolen the crown.” He glanced fearfully over his shoulder, but no one followed.
Karigan fell in step beside them, but they were unaware of her.
“Dying without naming an heir,” the castellan said with great distaste. “He’s left us a legacy, by the gods. A legacy I hoped to never see.”
The priest sniffed in indignation. “Beware of how you speak of the blessed ones.”
“Even that Rider-mender could not make his seed bear fruit. And the king saw him executed for that and—”
“Yes, yes, yes. He disbanded the Riders. An ungodly, deceitful bunch of traitors, those. The talk is that the Rider-mender prevented the king’s seed from bearing fruit.”
Karigan’s ears perked at that. She had never heard of the Riders being disbanded or considered traitorous. Never.
The castellan grunted and nodded. “He suspected goings-on behind his back. He was right, of course. Too shrewd not to be. Warhein sided with Hillander, and the time of chaos they sought is now upon us. There are none of the king’s clan left true enough of his blood to rule.”