Someone had dressed her in a short, rough gown, and she plucked at it with distaste. She felt fine, though hungry, and she wanted to get on with her day. Maybe it was the blue sky outside her window pulling at her.
She searched the tiny chamber for her uniform, but it was nowhere to be found. There was a stand with a pitcher, washbowl, and towel, and after splashing her face with water, she went to the door and flung it open.
Standing there in the doorway with his hand poised to knock was a young man in the pale blue smock of a mender, a journeyman’s knot on his shoulder. He goggled at her in bewilderment, clearly not expecting her to be up and about.
“Where are my clothes?” Karigan demanded. “It’s time I got ready to leave.”
Hand still upraised, the mender said, “Um, sorry. Wrong room, I think. Wrong patient.”
He reached for the door to close it, but she grabbed his wrist. He glanced at her hand in surprise.
“I am not a patient,” Karigan said, “and I want my clothes.”
“I can’t—I’m not allowed—”
“I don’t care,” Karigan said. “Just show me where my clothes are.”
“Now, now, what have we here?” The voice belonged to Master Mender Destarion. He ambled up the corridor, appraising the scene with narrowed eyes. The young journeyman stepped away from the doorway with obvious relief.
“Rider G’ladheon, there is no reason for you to trounce on poor Ben here. He is only newly made a journeyman and on his first rounds today. Furthermore, you are a patient here, and you may not leave without my permission.”
Karigan thought up an angry retort, but took a deep breath to suppress it. “When will you give me permission to leave?”
“That is not known until I have had a chance to examine you.”
“But—” Destarion’s stern look made her clamp her mouth shut.
“Now, Ben,” the master mender said to the journeyman, “you need to hold your ground, hmm? You cannot let troublesome patients have the upper hand.”
“Yes, sir,” Ben said.
“Troublesome!” Karigan sputtered.
“Green Riders are notoriously troublesome,” Destarion continued, as though lecturing a class. “They come in injured and mangled, we put them back together, then they stand in my halls making demands. A thankless lot to be sure.”
Karigan’s cheeks heated with outrage. “But I’m not mangled!”
Destarion ignored her outburst. “And our most notorious patient is that captain of yours.”
Karigan blinked in surprise, and nearly burst out laughing. Destarion, noting the change in her attitude, smiled warmly.
“Ben,” he said, “see if you can find Rider G’ladheon here biscuits and broth, and a pot of tea.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man hastened off.
Destarion gestured for Karigan to return to her chamber and followed her in. “What I’ve asked Ben to do is an apprentice’s duty—fetch and carry—but I don’t suppose he’ll mind just this once.”
After giving Karigan a cursory exam, he said, “You certainly seem in fine fettle, considering yesterday. How does your arm feel?”
Karigan tried to flex her right arm. Threads of pain shot through her elbow, but it wasn’t the dagger-grinding pain of before. “Getting better, I suppose.”
“Actually, I was wondering about the other arm.”
“My other—?”
Destarion nodded. “When you were brought in yesterday, you had the body temperature of one who had been caught in a blizzard. Your left arm showed signs of frost-bite. I am not even going to hazard a guess as to how you got into such a condition in the midst of summer.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll leave that to your captain.”
“It—it feels fine.”
Destarion looked her arm over critically. “So it is.” He pronounced her fit, but would not allow her to leave till she finished off the broth and biscuits Ben brought.
Karigan was pulling on a boot when Captain Mapstone appeared in the doorway.
“Glad to see you up and about.”
“Thank you,” Karigan said. “I was just about to come report to you.”
“Do you feel up to a little walk?”
The question surprised Karigan, but it took her only a moment to respond. “Yes.”
She draped her greatcoat over her arm and followed the captain into the corridor. They passed through the mending wing, Captain Mapstone asking her a few polite questions about how she felt. The mending wing had a subduing, sober atmosphere. It was very quiet, with thick carpets underfoot to muffle sound, and many hangings on the walls featuring pastoral scenes. They encountered a few menders in the corridor, and a soldier hobbling along on crutches.
To Karigan’s surprise, the captain did not turn down the stairway that led to the main floor of the castle. Instead, she turned right as they exited the mending wing.
“Where are we going?” Karigan asked.
Again, the half-smile. “Since you have spent so much time in dark abandoned corridors, I thought you’d like to see the castle from a new perspective.”
Intrigued, Karigan gave the captain a sideways look, but she seemed content to keep their destination to herself.
As they walked, the carpeting grew more plush, with intricate designs that could only be Durnesian. Large portraits hanging on the walls depicted fine noble ladies and gentlemen, some wearing armor and royal crowns. Along the walls were chairs with velvet cushions, and small tables with fresh-cut flowers arranged in vases. Lamp fixtures were golden and glittering. There were marble busts, too, of princes and princesses, kings and queens.