“How many do you think there are?” Karigan asked.

“Perhaps as many as twenty, but I would guess fewer.As you know, one Weapon is worth four or more ordinary soldiers.”

“Yes,” Karigan said. “I do know.”

Fastion looked pleased. “We may not possess Greenie magics, but we have our own skills. We have secrets.”

Karigan lay in silence. The cold of the slab was getting to her, as was the closeness of the room. There was no telling how much time had been lost, but half the candle had dripped away as they spoke.

“Fastion,” she said, “I’ve got to get back to the king and the others to let them know what I learned.”

“Can you stand?”

She dropped her legs over the slab. Her head throbbed mightily. She nearly fell back on the slab.

“A little at a time,” Fastion said.

He produced some dried meat and water left over from his own supper. It had been some time since midday when Karigan had sat with Alton beneath the sun at their picnic. Would she ever see the sun again? The food improved her spirits considerably, and she felt much stronger. Now she could stand, though she had to hold onto the slab at first to keep steady.

“I will guide you out,” Fastion said. “You must tell the king when you see him to remember the Heroes Portal. He must have walked those paths when a boy. His grandmother would have seen to it. I will try to reach the tombs and assemble all the Weapons I can. There, on Heroes Avenue, we shall meet you and the king.”

“The tombs . . . ?”

“Yes.”

Karigan had a vague suspicion she would never truly extricate herself from dealings with the dead. Ghosts, killings, and now tombs.

Fastion led Karigan through black corridors and a series of rooms, then down more corridors. He relied only on a single candle to light the way.

“Why is it so dark here?” Karigan asked. “Isn’t this part of the castle used?”

“No longer,” the Weapon said. “This section could house hundreds, and it once did. Troops, mostly, were garrisoned here in more restless days.”

“A very long time ago, then.”

“Yes. We Weapons know it all, all the corridors and rooms. We must. Quite a lot of history back here. There are even some Green Rider relics. I keep meaning to tell Captain Mapstone, but I get tied up in my duties and forget.”

The route Fastion took seemed like that of an endless cave or maze. When one candle melted down, he lit another. Their footsteps were hollow on the stone-flagged floor. Time seemed not to exist in this netherworld.

They passed numerous doors. Motheaten tapestries rustled on the walls as they walked by, and their feet stirred up dust. They caught the glow of a rat’s eye in the candlelight as it scurried across the corridor.

“The servants really ought to clean down here,” Fastion muttered.

Beside the tapestries, rusted arms and shields hung on the walls. The shields bore the devices of regiments: the evergreen, the sea dog, the wild rose, the catamount, the black bear, and the eagle. One shield of green featured the gold winged horse.

“So the Green Riders were once garrisoned with the rest of the militia,” Karigan said.

“At war time, yes. Green Riders served not only as couriers, but in other capacities, such as light cavalry. There are other things that are not disclosed in the history books, so I can only guess.”

Karigan could, too. Capacities like the one Beryl Spencer served in. “You sound like a historian,” she said.

Fastion glanced at her with a smile. “I am versed in more than weaponry skills.”

Karigan smiled back, abashed.

Finally, Fastion stopped at a heavy door bound in iron. “This opens into the main courtyard,” he said, “so you must take care. We’re some couple hundred yards from the main entrance and the gates. There are apt to be soldiers all about, but not directly guarding this door. It is somewhat . . . obscure.”

He turned and pulled on a huge iron ring, and if Karigan was expecting the hinges to creak and shriek with age, she was to be disappointed, for someone had made a point of oiling them.

Fresh night air rolled into the corridor, and Karigan breathed deeply, finally feeling she was going to be freed of the tomblike atmosphere of the castle.

“I would use your . . . er . . . ability,” Fastion said, “to get across the courtyard. Have you a horse?”

“He’s down in the city,” she said.

“Good. Remember, the Heroes Portal. The king should remember it. May Aeryc and Aeryon guide you.”

“And you,” Karigan said.

With some regret, she touched her brooch and stepped out into the night. The door closed shut behind her, and she was on her own. Shrubbery concealed the doorway, and she peered around it. Soldiers milled around, walking here and there to whatever business called them to duty at this late hour.

There was not enough light to reveal her, and she darted across the courtyard at a trot to the inner wall. She hugged it until she neared the guardhouse and gate. Someone barked orders to those standing on the wall, but she was not going to wait around to find out what those orders were about.

She watched the sentries cross paths, gauged where the shadows were deepest beneath the portcullis, and she ran. As her feet thudded on the draw bridge, she heard the command, “Ready arrows!”

“Oh, no,” she groaned.

Across the moat, the Anti-Monarchy Society shouted slogans and shook fists. A crowd had assembled to watch.