Firebrand

Before they stepped outside, Enver extinguished his moonstone, and then they were out the door. The night felt silent, clear and cold. Mister Whiskers and his mate padded alongside them. At some point, she had changed into her gryphon form, a panther with raven wings that shone sleek and glossy in the moonlight. She needed a name. Midnight, Estral thought, would suit.

She wondered how Enver had gotten through the guards to reach Nyssa’s workshop, then spied the bodies of Reed and Burson, their throats cut. Smoke still wisped from the bowl of Reed’s pipe cupped in his lifeless hand. Enver came across as mild and naive at times, but it was deceptive. She wondered how many more bodies lay in the encampment and woods.

Nyssa’s workshop was outside the keep’s wall, away from the shacks the people lived in. Perhaps the encampment’s inhabitants did not want to hear the screams of her victims. Whatever the case, it worked in their favor.

Enver stepped into the woods, Karigan limp over his shoulder, and there was a shimmer among the trunks of trees—Mist! The mare trotted up to them, moving as silently and sinuously as her name.

“Little cousin,” Enver said, “you will ride with the Galadheon. I have arranged a new camp that will show no evidence of our presence.”

“What about you?”

“I will follow behind. Mister Whiskers will escort you. His mate will stay with me.”

“Midnight.”

“It is past midnight.”

“I mean, her name. Mister Whiskers’ mate. She needs a name.”

“Ah, yes. Midnight and I will follow. We must hurry now. It will not be long before your escape is discovered.”

He bade Estral mount, and placed Karigan before her. “Do not worry about the reins. Mist knows where to go and where the traps are. Just hold on to the Galadheon. Mist will not let you fall.”

Shouting erupted from the vicinity of Nyssa’s workshop.

“There will be one awaiting you at the campsite, who will aid you. You must go now.”

Before Estral could ask “one what?” Mister Whiskers launched into the air, his great wings carrying him aloft above the trees, and Mist moved off at a trot, then a canter, gliding effortlessly through the woods, so smoothly that Estral hardly felt she was on a horse, at all. While it could have been a struggle to hold on to the dead weight that was Karigan, Mist’s subtle adjustments of stride and balance made it less difficult for her.

Like following the Eletian ways, Mist avoided underbrush and low-hanging branches. She ran swiftly, and unhindered, and so Estral was surprised at how quickly they left the forest for the plain beyond. Mist put on a new burst of speed as she navigated the rocky and hummocky terrain with ease.

Estral glanced up and saw the dark shape of Mister Whiskers against a field of stars. Had she been less exhausted from her ordeal and not holding onto her terribly injured friend, her awe would have been far greater. She held Karigan close and prayed she wasn’t hurting her badly.

Mist’s gait was so gentle that after a time, Estral caught herself dozing off. She shook herself and tightened her hold on Karigan. She had no idea how much time had passed when Mist finally slowed to a trot, then a walk. To her dismay, Mist walked right into a rock—and through it! She felt nothing at all at the passage, just air, and decided it must be an illusion. Both tents were set up in a bowl-like depression in the bedrock, and the horses were hobbled nearby. Condor neighed shrilly as if sensing Karigan’s condition, and Mist whickered back. He quieted. Mister Whiskers glided into a graceful, feline landing.

Mist halted, and just as Estral wondered how she was going to get Karigan off without dropping her, Mist knelt onto the ground.

“Let me help,” said a woman appearing seemingly out of nowhere. She supported Karigan while Estral dismounted. The two of them, holding Karigan between them, lifted her. “To Enver’s tent,” the woman said.

They carried Karigan into Enver’s tent, which was softly lit with another moonstone. It seemed much bigger inside than it appeared from outside. The woman started to lay Karigan on her back.

“No,” Estral said. “She is hurt on her back.”

“I see blood on her front.”

The stab wound. Estral hoped it had not reopened, but assumed Nyssa had been more than thorough with the iron. “It is worse on her back.”

They settled her on soft bedding. In the light, her face was flushed and glistened with sweat. The woman, Estral saw now that she had a moment to breathe, was Eletian.

“I am Nari,” the woman said. She carefully pried the blanket from Karigan’s wounds, and spoke sharply in Eltish.

Estral could not bear to look again. She had already seen too much. Mister Whiskers, now in his cat form, crouched at Karigan’s feet, watching with large eyes. Estral glanced at Nari, who was busy with a bowl of water and cloth, and began to clean the wounds. Estral told her all that had been done to Karigan at the hands of Nyssa so she would know what needed tending.

Nari was silent at first, as if taking it all in; then she said, “I will care for your friend, all her hurts, until Enver returns.” She glanced at Estral. “You have been through much, too. Perhaps you will wish to rest? Your tent is ready for you.”

Estral nodded, and feeling more weary than she remembered ever having felt before, she stumbled across the campsite and crawled into the tent. Her bedroll had been laid out for her. She removed Karigan’s bonewood from her back and unbuckled the swordbelt and placed the saber aside. She crumpled onto her blankets and wept. Wept as she had not since she was a child, wept for what she had done to cause her friend so much harm, wept knowing that she did not deserve forgiveness.