Firebrand

Karigan gave a breathy laugh.

As Estral went on detailing the adventures of Tiphane and Myrene, she warmed to the telling of how the two friends, chained together in a coracle on the Lake of Souls by the villain, Sedir, attempted to save themselves. The worse their predicament grew as they drifted toward a waterfall, the more they bickered. Finally they managed to resolve their differences and work together to escape and restore their friendship. Sedir came to a satisfying end, as well, in the hands of the souls that haunted the lake’s depths.

When Estral concluded, she found Karigan to be asleep and breathing deeply. She pressed her hand to Karigan’s brow and frowned. Cool and clammy. Before long she was shivering. Nyssa’s workshop wasn’t freezing, but it wasn’t exactly warm. She decided it would be worse for Karigan to freeze than to have her wounds irritated, so she pulled the blanket to her shoulders, and hoped it would be bearable. She lay down against Karigan, thinking perhaps her body heat would help.

She dozed off, only to be awakened by Karigan mumbling beside her. She turned over to see how she was doing. It was dark; no lamp or candle had been left behind for her to see by. There was only the ambient light of the brazier. She put her hand against Karigan’s cheek. Now she was hot, her forehead beaded with sweat.

“Damn.”

She scooped some water into her hand and patted Karigan’s brow, trying to cool her.

“Why?” Karigan demanded.

“Karigan?”

“Why did he do this to me?”

“You mean Nyssa?”

“The professor. Why . . .” Then she quieted, falling back into her fretful slumber.

The professor. She was remembering something of her sojourn in the future. Estral sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, not sure she could bear much more. Once again she wished she had never left their campsite that morning. She wished she was in Alton’s arms, that she had never left him even if it meant never regaining her voice. If she hadn’t, Karigan would be all right.

“Dear gods, don’t let her die, don’t let her die.” It became a mantra, a prayer, murmured over and over until she slumped in exhaustion. How would the gods answer? With help, or with silence?

The dark filled every corner, every rafter and crevice of Nyssa’s workshop, except where the brazier glowed orange and cast monstrous shadows across the far wall and ceiling. Wind gusted against the building, causing timbers to creak and groan and settle. Karigan murmured incoherently beside her. Emptiness weighed on her, the sense of how hopeless their situation.

She swallowed hard and clasped Karigan’s limp, too-warm hand in her own, fighting against the surge of despair and the panic. She was not alone, she told herself fiercely. She must remain strong for Karigan. Must remain calm. But she shook, the despair bearing down on her. The gods had spoken with silence. They had abandoned her, and Karigan, too.

“Meep?”

She looked up and was met by the golden glow of cat eyes. “Mister Whiskers?” Maybe she was the one suffering from delirium. “Is that you?”

He came to her purring, his tail crooked.

“How is it you came to be here?” she asked.

A shadow slipped through the slats of the pen behind him, but stayed at a cautious distance, a pair of green eyes gazing at her. A black cat?

“Did you find a mate?” she asked Mister Whiskers.

“Prrrt.” He rubbed against her hand.

“Good kitty,” she said, running her fingers down the silky fur of his back. “Can you help us? Karigan isn’t doing well.”

Karigan had grown fitful again beneath the blanket. Mister Whiskers sniffed her head and licked her nose. Then he curled up beside her shoulder and purred.

“Can you become a gryphon and help us escape?” Estral asked.

“Meep.”

But he didn’t transform. How had he found them? She tried to temper her hope that Mister Whiskers could somehow help. He did not appear about to turn into a gryphon, and even if he did, what then? Could he break the pen open and protect them from the guards? Even if he could, how was she to get Karigan out? She couldn’t carry her, and then there were all the other guards and the traps in the forest. Her hope plummeted once more.

“Such a nightmare,” she muttered.

“Morphia,” Karigan muttered. “Why did the professor . . . ?”

Estral gazed in despair at her friend trapped in nightmares within and without. The black cat, who’d been crouched near Karigan’s feet, crept cautiously alongside her body, and up to Mister Whiskers, then extended a paw and smacked him on the head.

“Prrrt?” He backed away, eyes large.

She smacked him again.

Mister Whiskers, getting some message, moved away while his mate curled up in his place. It was clear who was in charge. He then settled on Karigan’s other side and transformed. There was barely enough room for the four of them with him in gryphon form, but somehow he squeezed himself between Karigan and the wall, and to Estral’s wonder, he extended one of his wings so that it sheltered Karigan.

“Thank you,” Estral whispered, deeply moved. She was not as alone as she had been. She wondered what the guards would think when they found a gryphon in the pen with their prisoners.

GHOSTS

Karigan moved through dark dreams and memories of an underground passage, saw a blurred glimpse of Cade’s face.

Then it all shifted, and she was standing beside a river. On the opposite bank stood imperious brick mill buildings that were much taller, more imposing, than she remembered. She was talking again to the Rider who wore ancient garb, or rather, he was doing all the talking, as usual.