Amilton’s arms were outstretched to the ceiling as if he reached for his father painted there. Even without her brooch, Karigan could see the ghostly, bloodied figure of the Eletian being drawn out of him.
A black current of magic burrowed through Karigan’s flesh and into her shoulder. She writhed as the black thing sank deeper, crawled under her skin, wriggled in her muscle.
Smoke drifted up from the fabric of her coat. She smelled her own burning flesh. Old hurts reignited: the burns on her wrists from the creature of Kanmorhan Vane, the bite of Immerez’s whip on her shoulder, the countless knocks, bruises, scrapes, abuses . . . Her side was wet with blood.
The thing probed deeper, and she moaned with pain. She knew with some part of her that it sought out her heart and strove to twist and twine like poison through every sinew of her body.
On the periphery of her vision, a shadow with a sword looked down at her with steely eyes. The shadow tossed her mane of russet hair over her shoulder, and turned to the screaming Amilton. The sword streamed through the air like the tail of a falling star and plunged into Amilton. The scream stopped short though its residue clung to the stone walls of the throne room.
Amilton crumpled. The silver fillet fell from his head and rolled across the floor to King Zachary’s feet. It spun there like a coin until he grasped it with a trembling hand.
The Eletian faded from existence like a puff of smoke.
Karigan groaned as the last vestiges of magic left her body and the accompanying pain dissipated. Her father’s face clarified in her hazy vision as he looked down at her. Sevano, and some blonde, green-eyed lady who looked vaguely familiar, also gazed down on her.
“Kari?” her father said hoarsely.
“Uh . . .” was all she could say.
He clasped her hand. His hand was warm and its weathered texture felt good to her. It felt real. “Can you sit up?” he asked.
She raised herself to her elbows and shook her head to clear it. Pain lingered, but its intensity was a distant thing. Her whole body felt battered; it was too difficult to pinpoint one single hurt more significant than the others. Where the current of magic had entered her shoulder, she felt nothing at all.
She let her father and Sevano help her to her feet. Shakily she hooked a strand of hair behind her ear.
An odd gray light stole the contrast of oil lamp and night from the throne room. With some surprise she realized morning had finally dawned and its dusky light had brightened the east side windows.
Nobles murmured among themselves in weary tones. Brienne and Rory stirred on the floor, grimacing and rubbing their eyes. Fastion crouched by them. Captain Mapstone sat beside a dazed Beryl Spencer who cradled her head in her hands. Connly held his sword to the jowls of Tomas Mirwell.
Jendara stood over the body of Amilton Hillander. Her bloodied sword hung loose in her hand. She shook her head and tossed the sword aside.The clatter of metal on stone woke everyone up. All eyes fell on her. Her eyes found Karigan.
“We are even, Greenie,” she said.
Karigan opened her mouth to speak, but just then, the throne room doors burst open and Weapons and soldiers dressed in silver and black spilled into the room. The door hidden behind the tapestry opened as well and Weapons, followed by Horse Marshal Martel and his cavalry soldiers, issued in. The opening of the doors dissipated the last of the spell that had cloaked the room.
Horse Marshal Martel and the Weapons sought out the king to ensure he was well. Karigan could not tell from where she stood, but he seemed well, at least as well as she was. He looked dazed and exhausted, with blood staining his mustache and beard.
“We need some menders here,” Marshal Martel said to one of his officers, “and double quick.”
A Weapon knelt by the corpse of Devon Wainwright. Others joined him, and they spoke in low voices. They stood and turned to the king. “We seek the one who has killed Devon.”
Before the king could respond, Jendara stepped forward and said, “I did.”
Swords hissed out of sheaths. A black ring of Weapons closed in on her.
“I know you, traitor,” one said. “Devon was our teacher.”
“You shall suffer Saverill’s fate,” another said.
Jendara stared coldly at each of her captors. “I was once Devon’s student, too. I learned much from her.” She looked them over critically, as if gauging them, as if they had fallen far beneath her standards.
Then she lunged.
One of the Weapons reacted by raising his sword to stop her. Jendara did not stop.
“N-no,” Karigan cried, but her father enclosed her in his arms and swept her down the throne room runner, and through the great oaken doors.
HOMEWARD
Karigan walked along the pasture fence, in the bright blue silks her father had given her, feeling odd after so long wearing the uniform of the messenger service. The silk felt light and billowy on her skin, as if she wore nothing at all.
She squinted in the sun, watching Condor frisk with some other horses. He cantered across the pasture, his tail held high like a flag and his ears pricked forward. Karigan laughed aloud when he halted in his tracks to roll and grunt in a patch of mud. Mel would not be happy when it came time to groom him.
“Carefree, aren’t they?”
Karigan turned in surprise to find Beryl Spencer standing behind her. Incredibly she still wore her scarlet uniform with the incongruous winged horse brooch fastened to her shortcoat. She held the reins to a bay mare tacked with saddlebags for long travel. The mare’s ears flopped back and forth and she nickered at the frolicking horses.