Firebrand

As she gazed at the Rider’s face, such a young face, she thought, it suddenly transformed. The young woman who stood before Grandmother was no longer a Green Rider, but a knight clad in gleaming armor, with a winged helm, and a lance and shield in her hands. Symbols moved across the steel as though alive. Grandmother had seen a version of this image before. It was the dark angel, the avatar of the god of death. The figure raised the helm’s visor, and there was the face of the Green Rider, her visage cold and dispassionate, her mirror eye revealed. It flashed, blinding Grandmother, and then the vision was gone.

Grandmother rocked back in her chair in surprise, and rubbed her eyes. When she recovered, she clapped and laughed.

Her people gathered around her, alarmed. “What is it, Grandmother?” Min asked.

Casting spells and seeking visions could be taxing, but Grandmother only felt elated. She stood as though she were a much younger woman and clapped again.

“Not only do we have the king,” she said, “but I know who the death god’s avatar is!”

“It’s a who?” Min asked. “And not a what?”

“My dear, it has to be a who to function on the Earthly plane. We had her here, and we will have her back.”

“The Greenie or her friend?”

“The Greenie, Min, the Greenie.”

Grandmother could have danced. The Green Rider would be compelled to come back, drawn by two separate, but potent, forces. The first was her king. As soon as she was able, she would attempt to rescue him again no matter the peril, just as she had the Lady Estora back in Teligmar. If that was not enough, there was the second compulsion, the Aeon Iire. She would have to come in her avatar form. Either way, Grandmother and Second Empire would have her, her and that curious mirror eye.

She stooped and picked up the braid that had slipped from her lap when she stood. Nyssa had not known how fortuitous it was that she cut off Karigan G’ladheon’s braid. Not only had it given Grandmother the vision, but she had another use for it.

“Lala!” she called.

The girl ran to her from the kitchen.

“Where is my basket? Would you bring it to me, please?”

“Yes’m.”

Grandmother sat while Lala ran off, jubilant, almost giddy. Everything was falling into place for her people. She had the Sacoridian king, and soon she’d control the death god’s avatar, hence the dead. Lala soon skipped back into the great hall with the basket and set it at Grandmother’s feet.

Grandmother pulled out her great working. Not only had she allowed it to absorb the blood of Birch’s slave girl, but it seemed to have taken years from Grandmother, as well, just in its making. Her hair had grown whiter, her hips and hands more arthritic. She had slowed down perceptibly.

But it was all worth it, she thought, as she began to weave strands of Karigan G’ladheon’s hair into the net that would trap her.

GHOSTS

She gazed at the high king’s tomb. Lamplight glowed on the marble features of the effigy of King Zachary carved on the lid of the sarcophagus. She stood in its companion, the queen’s sarcophagus. It had no lid.

The sculptural effigy of the king was even more lifelike than she remembered, almost as though if she touched it, she would feel his skin and not cold marble. There was something about the king, something she knew, and though she wrestled with herself in an attempt to remember it, she could not. She was so tired.

I just want to go to bed.

“This is familiar,” a man said.

She turned to find Siris Kiltyre leaning against a column. Shadows shrank and enlarged in an exaggerated dance against the walls and ceiling. It was familiar.

“You acted as Westrion’s avatar for the first time in these tombs,” he said. “Reluctantly, of course, though I can’t say I blame you. You did come around and do a great service for the realm of the living.”

She shook her head at memories that buzzed around it like flies. Salvistar appearing, she riding him, sending spirits of the dead to rest. How could the memories be real? They were . . . ridiculous.

“Overwhelming, isn’t it? Your memory of it was put out of reach. It is not an easy concept for any living mortal to assimilate, but now it must be made more accessible to you.”

She’d ridden Salvistar into a deep pit and, in its very depths, mended a seal that kept dark entities at bay. Had they escaped, the chaos would have destroyed the living world.

“Yes,” Siris Kiltyre said, “in these tombs there is an access point to a realm beyond death, to the darkest realms of existence, and the iire, the seal, imprisons the dark entities. The Aeon Iire is now in danger. If it is broken, all hells will break loose, and this is no euphemism.”

She wiped her hand across her brow. These dreams, they were so tiring. Something bad had happened to her in the waking world. When she was sick, her dreams became stranger than usual, more real somehow.

Siris Kiltyre took a step toward her. “You are still unwell, I know, but this is no mere dream. You must remember. You must remember what I’ve said about the armor, and about how spirits will try to trick you.”

It took everything she had to speak. “What if you are tricking me?”

“Ah,” he said, brightening, “now you are thinking. That is good.”

Then he vanished, and all fell into darkness.

STUBBORN

Estral had slept through to the next morning. Nari, she learned, had gone to soak in a nearby hot spring. Estral was eager to make use of it herself, to wash away the darkness of her captivity, but first, Enver wished to speak to her.