Blackveil

“Captain?”

Laren turned to discover Ben Simeon approaching. He had changed out of his mender’s smock into his Rider garb.

“Hello, Ben, do you have a riding lesson this afternoon?” Not that he ever managed to actually get on a horse. Horsemaster Riggs was mystified as to how to overcome his fear.

“Yes,” he said glumly. He looked tired, a little pallid in the cheeks.

Guessing the cause, she asked, “How is the castellan?”

Ben brightened. “Resting comfortably. I believe I knitted the entire break back together. The rest of the healing is up to him, but he now has the hip of a twenty year old.”

“Good heavens!” Of any Rider ability, Laren thought as they walked together toward Rider stables, the most miraculous was that of true healing. Ben had been trained as a mender before hearing the Rider call, and she could only believe that his prior training aided his magical ability, just as his magical ability enhanced his prior training.

Naturally Ben was in great demand in the mending wing and Master Destarion was no doubt pleased Ben hadn’t taken to horses. Laren feared Ben was allowing himself to be overworked. Using one’s ability had its costs—she felt those costs in her joints every day. With Ben she thought it could be even more devastating. From his haggard appearance, she deduced he was giving too much of himself, of his essence, to heal others. She’d have to make a point of speaking with Destarion later, and in the meantime wish that another true healer could be found among the ranks of her new Riders.

When Galen Miller chewed the herbalist’s weed, its juices stung the sores that had erupted in his mouth. He needed more and more to subdue his shakes, but it often sent him into feverish sweats and blurred his perceptions of reality.

Some mornings he awoke to visions of the king standing over him dressed all in black, just like the wax figure of him at the Sacor City War Museum. He’d studied the figure so he’d know the real king when he saw him.

In his vision, however, the king towered over him and a noose hung still and solid beside him, its looped shadow stark against the far wall.

Raised you a traitor, eh? came the crass words that issued from the king’s mouth, but didn’t seem to belong to him.

“N-no,” Galen would sputter. “A good lad. Clay was a good lad.”

The king would float there, Galen writhing in terror on his pallet until sense came back to him. He needed to cut back on the weed, use just enough to keep his hand steady.

From the notches he made on a rafter of his attic room, he figured out it was the equinox. He was beginning to wonder if all his plans were for naught, that his boy would never be avenged. Even with the extra coins the stranger had given him all those weeks ago, he was not sure he’d have enough currency to keep his room at the inn until the king deigned to leave his castle.

Galen reached for his tankard with a trembling hand and slurped down the stale water, oblivious to the runnels dribbling down his chest. When he finished, he set the tankard beside his precious sheaf of the herb and a small vial he’d also obtained from the herbalist for a handsome sum. It contained the closure to all his waiting.

Two days ago, on inspiration, he’d spared a little of the precious fluid for the barbed heads of the two arrows he kept at the ready by the window. One tiny drop each. The herbalist claimed the poison would remain efficacious for weeks. He did not want any question of his quarry’s survival. It would take only one arrow, the second was just in case. Yes, his boy would be avenged.

He rose from his pallet and crossed over to the window, sitting on the ledge and leaning against the casement. He gazed out into the street, continuing the vigil he’d carried on for so many weeks.

He awoke from a doze when he heard the hooves of several horses clopping down the street. When the riders came into view, Galen’s pulse quickened.

His wait was over.

EQUINOX

Zachary was not, in Estora’s opinion, an impulsive man. If he was, he wouldn’t have lasted long as a king. His brother, Amilton, had been the complete opposite, giving in to his every urge. It cost him the throne. King Amigast had passed over him in favor of Zachary. Amilton’s impulses then led him to plot against his brother, which resulted in his being exiled and, ultimately, killed.

Estora appreciated Zachary’s thoughtful demeanor, though he was, perhaps, a little too driven to work, so she was surprised and delighted when he canceled all his afternoon appointments and invited her for an outing. Of course, it wasn’t just her, but several courtiers, her father, and Richmont. And then of course, there were the Weapons, the falconers, and several servants. Guards cleared the street before them. Estora waved to the people who watched and cheered as the king and his companions rode by.

Estora did not know what inspired Zachary’s sudden desire to leave work behind for an afternoon of recreation for he rarely spoke intimately to her about his feelings, an inclination she hoped would change once they married. For the time being she was content to ride beside him and assume it was just the promise of spring calling him from his dark, stone walls. She’d certainly had enough of winter’s cold austerity herself.

She gave her future husband a sidelong glance as he sat astride his stallion. Presently he was far off in his own thoughts and where they might lead she could not guess. The wind rippled through his hair and there was the hint of a smile all too quickly gone.

He must have sensed her gaze for he turned to look at her. “What is it, my lady?”

“I was wondering where your thoughts were traveling.”