Firebrand

“What are the red pieces to the . . . the north of them?” Karigan asked.

“Yes, that’s even farther north, the Lone Forest. Zachary believes more of Second Empire, perhaps its civilians and leaders, have entrenched themselves there.”

“The Lone Forest,” Karigan murmured. Before the Long War a thousand years ago, the Sacor Clans may have ranged that far north, but with the clans diminished during the war, the border receded to present-day Sacoridia. Might Grandmother herself reside in the Lone Forest?

“Zachary is certain they have not moved from the Lone Forest,” Estora said, “though the winter has been much too harsh to get anyone up there to take a look and make sure.”

Karigan gazed at the board for some time until Jaid reappeared with tea and cakes, and poured. Jasper eyed the cakes with interest from where he lay at Estora’s feet.

“You are excused, Jaid,” Estora said, “for your own tea.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Jaid curtsied and left them.

At first they sat in silence sipping their tea; then Estora seemed to come to some decision. “I was wondering . . . I was wondering how it is with you? How your eye is doing?”

Karigan’s hand went reflexively to the patch. “It—it is unchanged.” That wasn’t exactly true, she supposed, after her confrontation with Lhean.

“Do you . . .” Estora was hesitant, couldn’t seem to look directly at Karigan. “Do you ever look into it? Its mirror nature?”

“No. It is not something I wish to see. It is disorienting.”

“It is difficult to imagine,” Estora said. “I have always enjoyed the antics of tumblers with looking masks at parties and festivals. I had never imagined them as having real power, except maybe the one at the masquerade ball we held before you went to Blackveil.” She gazed into the distance, as if remembering.

Karigan remembered, too. She’d beheld visions of Grandmother, and of descending arrows, in the tumbler’s mask. Was it the very same mask she had shattered in Castle Argenthyne? The shard of which had claimed her right eye?

“Karigan,” Estora said carefully, “I would like to see your eye.”

Karigan restrained the impulse to scream, No! Why would Estora ask such a thing of her?

“I wonder about the children,” Estora said, “their future, if there is a way I can prepare for any possible complications . . .”

Her expression was imploring, and Karigan could well understand her anxiety, but to ask this of her? No, not ask. She requested, and as queen, she could not be refused. Karigan gazed into her teacup, which shook in her hands. After what she had experienced with Lhean, she was not sure she could endure it again.

“Are you sure you really want this, my lady? Others have found it disquieting.”

“Yes.” Estora’s expression was eager, hopeful.

Karigan hesitated.

“Please,” Estora said quietly, “please do not make me demand it of you. It would be . . . it would be in service to your realm.”

Karigan loosed a shaky breath. Estora was using her royal prerogative. As much as Estora might go on about the two of them being friends, Karigan was her servant first, and that would always stand between them. She nodded in acquiescence and set her teacup aside. She rose and knelt beside Estora’s sofa, and removed her eyepatch. Estora’s sharp intake of breath revealed that even though she knew what it was that had happened to Karigan’s eye, it was still a shock.

At first Karigan saw nothing through that eye, but there was the needling pain of exposing it to light and air, and then she glimpsed stars and threads of light streaking through her vision. Images blurred by so rapidly she could not grasp them.

A dagger pain stabbed through her eye, and she turned away with a cry, half-falling over. She caught herself on the table, which shifted beneath her weight. Books and game pieces spilled to the floor, and teacups rattled in their saucers. Jasper barked. Hastily she replaced the patch over her eye and the pain diminished to a dull throb. She sat on the floor panting.

When she returned her gaze to Estora, Estora remained sitting forward on the sofa, her gaze distant as if she were ensnared by visions.

“What is it?” Karigan asked. “What did you see?”

Estora sat up, once more in the present. Her expression was difficult to read, and when she smiled, it seemed a little sad. “My children will be happy. I am very sorry, dear Karigan, that I put you through that. Please forgive me.”

Karigan climbed to her feet. “I’m . . . I’ll be all right.” The dull throb of her eye migrated to the whole of her head and she felt unbalanced. She saw the afterlight of stars in her mind. “If I may have your leave, I had better attend to my duties.”

“Yes,” Estora said absently.

What had she really seen? Karigan wondered.

THE FUTURE, GOOD OR BAD

Karigan staggered out of Estora’s apartments in something of a daze, her head pounding. She swerved around a corner in the corridor, and did not see the king until she nearly plowed into him.

“Your Majesty,” she murmured. She stepped back, and tried to bow, but vertigo made her lose her balance. He steadied her.

“Are you ill?” he asked, peering at her.

She thought, with embarrassment, she probably looked more inebriated than anything. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“Perhaps you should sit down.”

In fact, the world was shifting into better focus now, the throb in her head easing. She straightened her shoulders. “Truly, I am fine. Please, do not trouble yourself.”