On her way off castle grounds, a ragged-looking sergeant of the regular militia urged his weary horse beneath the portcullis and toward the main castle entrance. With passing curiosity, she wondered what business drove him, but with the road and freedom of the ride ahead of her, she did not dwell on it.
SECOND EMPIRE
“And that is the last of it,”Sergeant Westley Uxton said, lamplight flickering across his face. “I do not know if the young lord lives or is dead, but I do know the forest lives.”
“Certainly that’s not the same story you gave the king,” Madrene said.
Uxton looked indignant. “Of course not. I told him that Lord Alton fell, but I otherwise did keep as close to the truth as possible.”
Leave it to Madrene, so consumed with secrecy to protect her own hide, Weldon Spurlock thought, to overlook the two pieces of excellent news Uxton had brought them. Alton D’Yer was no longer a threat, and Blackveil was alive. The question was, what to do with the information. Bide their time till there was some more definite communication from the forest? For so long, the society of the Second Empire had been geared toward retaining its secrecy that now, faced with the actual awakening of the forest, they were a bit stymied as to how to proceed. Maybe there’d be some sign . . .
“Well done, Sergeant,” Spurlock said.
Uxton nodded. “Wasn’t easy to do,” he murmured.
The group stood in silence in the musty, dark room. These abandoned rooms were useful for keeping out of sight of anyone curious enough to stick their nose where it did not belong, but as much as he didn’t like to admit it, the place was distinctly creepy. Sometimes he thought he heard muttering, or caught sight of movement at the edge of his lamplight as he made his way through the abandoned corridors. Old structures were like that, he had to remind himself, full of odd noises like chatty old women.
No doubt water dripping somewhere, he thought. Or the echo of my own footfalls down empty corridors.
As for the movements? A trick of light and shadow, or maybe a rodent scurrying by.
The worst sensation, however, was a palpable touch on his skin, like cool fingers brushing him. Purely imagination, of course, wrought by primal fears of dark, abandoned places. It made him shudder all the same.
“I have one other item to address before we part,” Spurlock said, finding comfort in his own voice, “and that is what to do about Galadheon.”
“Nothing,” Robbs the blacksmith said. “That line will bring us nothing but grief.” The others echoed their agreement.
“I tend to see it your way,” Spurlock said. “Through the records in my care, one can see this line has long forgotten its past, and indeed, there are even gaps in our own vigilance. For many a year, the line remained as quiet and ignorant fisherfolk on Black Island, until recently with the merchanting success and clanship of Stevic G’ladheon.
“Then, surprise of all surprises, his daughter comes here to the castle grounds as a Green Rider.”
There was hissing and other noises of disparagement toward those who had helped defeat their ancestors.
“While our brothers and sisters in Corsa have determined the father as too rash and independent-minded for our group, they believed the daughter might prove otherwise. From my own observation, this hasn’t been the case. She is much like the father and has shown herself very loyal to the king.”
Spurlock recalled the scene in the king’s study, the way the sun shone on Karigan G’ladheon’s face, and the expression of the king when they locked gazes. More than just loyalty there, he thought, and perhaps something worth exploiting in the future. He tucked that bit of information to the back of his mind for later use.
“She is,” he continued, “entirely unsuited for our society.”
“I’m surprised we even considered her,” Madrene said. “Hers is a line much cursed.”
Uxton’s booming laugh echoed down the corridor. “So cursed her father is one of the richest men in Sacoridia!”
Madrene scowled. “You know what I mean. Much cursed by us.”
Uxton rolled his eyes. “Of course, Madrene. Galadheon is much cursed by us.”
“I will continue my vigil on her,” Spurlock said, “but I do not consider her a threat, or her father, but should things change, we and our sect in Corsa should be set to eliminate any threat. In the meantime, so long as Clan G’ladheon is ignorant of its heritage, no harm should come to them.”
“Why not kill them now, like Lord Alton?” Robbs asked. “Why wait for something to happen?”
Spurlock nodded. “A good question, but we dare not act prematurely. What if we open ourselves to detection by a moment of carelessness? Wouldn’t the murders of Stevic G’ladheon and his heir draw unwanted attention? I choose caution; to not make any moves unless warranted. Are there further objections?”
No one spoke. Spurlock felt cold hands around his neck and heard a muttering near his ear.
Five hells! His gut froze as the cold passed through it. He’d be glad to get out of here.
“Let us end then. Praise be to Mornhavon.”
“Praise be to Mornhavon,” they all chanted.
They raised their hands high, exposing the tattoos on their palms to the light of their lamps, and Spurlock led the closing in the Imperial tongue: “Leo diam frante clios . . .”
Mostly unaware of the ghostly presences that swept in and around them in great agitation, Second Empire finished its meeting in ancient ritual.