Blackveil

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I’ve come as you requested. How may I serve?”

“You told no one where you were going, whom you were seeing?”

“I spoke to no one as instructed by your message.”

Estora nodded. “Good.” Perhaps after Richmont’s admissions she was being too mistrustful, but she preferred not taking chances. “Lieutenant, I realize this is a complicated time for all of us, but I must ask you to keep our meeting secret.” Secret. The word echoed in her mind in Richmont’s sneering voice. So many secrets. She closed her eyes for a moment.

“May I ask why, my lady?”

A bold question, she thought, when he was so uncertain of her. But the Riders were bold. She knew just how bold they could be.

“No,” she replied.

He bowed his head. “I understand.”

He understood that she could not trust him yet. She remembered how F’ryan used to bring her to the common room of the old barracks to play games with the Riders. They played Knights, Intrigue, even rolled dice. Connly had been there, untried and only just beginning his career in the messenger service. They’d laughed and joked and told stories. It was all different now, as though they’d never met before.

“I know you are finding it difficult to be sure of me right now,” she said. At his alarmed expression she added, “Relax, please. I am not accusing you of anything.”

“What of Captain Mapstone?” he asked, once again showing his daring.

Someone else, another monarch, might have punished him for impertinence. But Estora was who she was. “If it helps, I am told your captain is very comfortably settled into a suite of rooms in the diplomatic wing—the finest—and is being treated royally. And she’s hating every moment of it.”

She saw the flicker of a smile on his face, and then it was gone.

“When . . .” he began. “When will you release her?”

“I will not answer your question, but I did want to reassure you she is well.”

“Please, may I see her?” Connly asked.

“No.”

His face fell.

“Though as a favor to her, because of her long service and devotion to King Zachary, I am going to permit a visit from her friend Elgin Foxsmith. As he is no longer a Green Rider, his presence is more . . . permissible. Not a conflict of interest. I am sure you will find his assessment of the conditions of her confinement favorable.”

Good. The Rider looked much relieved, and he relaxed.

“Furthermore,” she continued, “based on the information you and your Riders provided us about the Eletian Sleepers and the towers, you may be pleased to know we have arranged for an extra unit of soldiers to provide support down at the wall.”

His relief was now almost palpable. Relief for the added safety more soldiers could provide for his fellow Riders assigned to the towers, especially the Rider he shared his mind with, Trace Burns. From his reaction, Estora discerned they shared more than their thoughts.

By telling Connly these things, she hoped to draw him into her confidence, for she needed his help, and she believed the only ones who could truly help her were the Green Riders, and one Green Rider in particular.

“Lieutenant,” she said, “I understand Beryl Spencer is due in soon.”

As soon as Elgin learned he could visit Red, he wasted no time in throwing on an old patched oilskin coat and trekking from the stables where he was seeing to “the girls” and through the rain to the castle’s diplomatic wing, where they’d detained his friend. Once among the fine furnishings and passing richly attired and important looking people, Elgin felt quite the pauper, quite inadequate. He’d left Sacor City after his brooch released him from the messenger service because of such feelings, and now here he was, dripping rain on a carpet worth far more than his own sorry hide, and keeping his head bowed in the presence of his betters.

The guard at Red’s door looked askance at him. “What do you want, old man?”

“I am here to see Captain Mapstone.”

“Go away. Only certain visitors are allowed. By the queen’s orders.”

“But—” Elgin began.

“Get outta here,” the guard said.

A Weapon appeared seemingly from the shadows. Elgin recalled the fellow’s name to be Fastion. It was not easy remembering the names of the Weapons for they all appeared the same, with their stony countenances and black attire. Elgin had a sneaking suspicion they cultivated uniformity—it allowed them to fade into the background. No single individual stood out.

“Let him in,” Fastion ordered in an authoritative voice. “He is approved by the queen.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard said, and without hesitation he pivoted, knocked on the door, and opened it for Elgin.

“Thank you,” Elgin told Fastion, and the Weapon nodded.

The chamber Elgin entered reeked of luxury, from overstuffed chairs to artwork even his undiscerning eye could tell was of the highest quality. It was a suite, really, with a sitting room, bedchamber, and a bathing room. More cavernous than anything he had ever lived in.

Within he had expected to find an agitated Rider captain pacing madly. Instead, he discovered Red lounging on a sofa with stockinged feet up, reading a book. A tray containing a pot of tea and pastries sat on a table in front of the sofa. Elgin was not sure he’d ever seen her look so relaxed.

Red glanced over her book to see who’d entered. It took a moment for her eyes to register recognition, and when they did, she dropped the book and leaped up.