Firebrand

Aunt Gretta made an indignant hurrumphing noise, standing square with her hands on her hips. “You have no appreciation for all I’ve ever done for you, Stevic, including caring for your bouts of frostbite.”

“Gretta—”

Uh oh, Karigan thought.

“You remember the time Stevic went into the snow in only his smallclothes?” Aunt Gretta asked her sisters.

Aunt Brini snickered, and the others nodded.

“Gretta, no,” he said in a strangled voice. “It is unseemly to—”

She jabbed her finger at his chest. “Who kept you from freezing, eh? All your little fingers and toes, your ears and cheeks, and your wee little—”

“Enough! That’s—I was only four years old!”

A wicked gleam shone in Aunt Gretta’s eyes. “Wouldn’t be any Kari if I hadn’t been there to thaw out your important bits.”

Karigan’s father looked mortified. Captain Mapstone had turned away with her hand over her mouth, either choking or laughing, or both. Karigan glanced toward the king and was relieved to find he was absorbed in conversation with his visitors and seemingly unaware of the familial squabbling occurring in his throne room.

Stevic G’ladheon restrained further outburst and straightened his shoulders as if to exude dignity, but he only looked pained. He took a deep breath, then a second, before speaking. “It is time to leave.” He stared his sister down. “The menders have their hands full, and so does Karigan.” He passed Aunt Stace a significant look.

Ordinarily, the sisters would heed Aunt Stace when they would not heed their brother, but before she could even open her mouth, Aunt Tory complained in a querulous voice, “He is always telling us what to do.”

The others nodded in agreement and made no move to leave. Karigan was sure it was going to turn into a scene, one she’d rather avoid in the king’s throne room. She gazed at the walls, where in sheltered alcoves, the king’s Weapons stood watch. They were so silent, so still, their black uniforms blending in with the shadows, that it was easy to forget they were there, and that was how they liked it. She espied her friend Donal, if a Weapon could be deemed a friend, and gestured frantically for his help.

At first Donal remained statue-still as if he had not seen Karigan, or chose to ignore her. As the voices of her aunts grew in pitch at their brother’s attempt to shepherd them out of the throne room, Karigan despaired, but then Donal did move, and a second Weapon, Travis, fell in step with him, though Donal had given no discernible signal.

“Clever of you,” a forgotten Captain Mapstone murmured beside her, humor alight in her hazel eyes.

The two Weapons halted in front of Karigan’s aunts, who fell into a wary, and welcome, silence. Weapons were deadly warriors and forbidding in countenance. Most found it unnerving to fall under their stern gazes. Donal bowed, leaving all four aunts, it appeared, flabbergasted.

“As you are family of our esteemed Sir Karigan,” Donal told them, “it would be our honor to escort you out.”

It could have just as easily been a courteous offer to throw them out.

It sounded like Captain Mapstone was trying not to laugh again. Karigan’s aunts remained speechless, clearly flummoxed by being confronted by two of the king’s own Weapons up close with their warrior bearing and stony, solemn faces. Her aunts craned their necks to look up at Donal. He towered over them, all shoulders and black leather. Karigan had never seen her aunts so silent. Even in sleep they were not this quiet.

Then Donal did the inconceivable—he offered Aunt Stace his arm in a courtly manner. She tentatively took it, gazing up at him uncertainly. With little prompting, he and she started to walk down the runner toward the entryway of the throne room. Aunt Tory, Aunt Brini, and Aunt Gretta hastened after them. Travis brought up the rear.

“Breyan’s gold,” Karigan’s father said in awe and relief. “I have never seen the like. I’d take one of these Weapons home with me, but I do not think it would be long before my sisters had him cowed like the rest of us.”

“You are clearly of one family,” Captain Mapstone remarked.

Karigan and her father glanced at the captain, who offered them an innocent smile and shrug.

“Hmm,” Stevic G’ladheon said after a considered moment, his eyebrows drawn together as he regarded the captain with an enigmatic look. Abruptly he turned to Karigan. “I had better catch up before those Weapons return and decide to haul me out, too, but I wanted a hug and to tell you that I will see you again tomorrow. When your duties permit.” As they embraced, he added, “I bet Estral could use a friend right now.”

He then nodded to the captain and strode away. Karigan watched after him, one part relieved and one part sorry he was leaving already. But as he said, she would see him tomorrow. He was only going into the city. It was not as if he were departing for Corsa.

“I think your father is right,” Captain Mapstone told her. “Lady Estral could use a friend right now, and probably these, too.” She handed Karigan the slate and a piece of chalk.

Karigan stared blankly at the items, until she realized this was how Estral communicated. Scrawled across the slate in smudged chalk were the words: Father still missing. Please help. Her father, Mara had told Karigan, had been missing since the summer. The words were deceptively simple, for she could well guess the depth of sorrow and fear behind them.

“Don’t worry about our visitors,” Captain Mapstone said. “I will call on you if we need anything. On your way out, could you please send a runner after the king’s other counselors?”