“That is Karigan,” he said.

“Yes.”

“She came back. I knew she would. We must—”

Just then, a cry, a different cry from all the others, ripped through the hall. Queen Estora was doubled over in her chair. More Weapons and her maid came running.

Oh, no, Laren thought. Zachary hesitated, looked torn. “Your place is with your wife and the child she bears,” she said. “Go to her now and get the castellan to calm your guests. I will report to you on Karigan’s condition just as soon as I can.”

“Yes.” This time he did not hesitate but strode directly toward Estora, issuing orders as he went.

Laren ran out into the corridor both elated by Karigan’s return, and sorely worried for Estora.

Karigan still struggled and fought against the Weapons who carried her away. All the way to the mending wing, she pleaded with them to let her “go back.”

Go back where? Where had she been all this time? She had entered Blackveil nine months past and vanished. How had she arrived in such . . . in such a fashion? The Eletians followed along in silence, revealing nothing. How had they known when and where to “observe” Karigan’s arrival?

Laren chose not to summon any of her Riders, not even Connly, Mara, or Elgin, in order to prevent an onrush of Karigan’s concerned friends to the mending wing. Word would reach them soon enough. Ben, her Rider-mender, was here on duty. She grabbed him and pointed ahead to where Fastion and Donal tried to restrain Karigan so that Master Mender Vanlynn could look her over. Despite Vanlynn’s soothing tones, she could not calm Karigan.

When Ben saw who needed his help, his mouth dropped open and he paled as though . . . as though he was looking at a ghost. Laren knew the feeling.

“Quiet her, lad,” Vanlynn ordered him. “We can’t help her while she struggles in this manner. She’s near crazed.”

Ben had learned a new facet of his special mending ability in the fall, and he used it now. He touched his finger to Karigan’s forehead, and she slumped in the arms of the Weapons. Ben’s touch would allow her to rest peacefully for a time, giving the menders an opportunity to examine and treat her. Perhaps when she woke, she’d be more herself.

Vanlynn hobbled over to Laren, leaning on her stick. The elder woman had come out of retirement to replace the former master mender.

“One of yours, eh?” Vanlynn said.

“Yes. She is—”

“I know who she is. My assistants will see to her. Meanwhile, I’ve been summoned to the queen’s quarters, and Ben with me. Your Rider will have to wait. Why they can’t bring the queen here is beyond me. Lord-Governor Mirwell will have to wait, too. He is apparently demanding my presence to treat the scalding of his nether parts. Ben!”

“Yes, Master Vanlynn.” He had a mender’s satchel over his shoulder. He glanced back with regret to where Karigan was being moved into a room. “I’ve got to go,” he told Laren.

“I know. The queen needs you.”

He nodded and hurried after his chief. His other chief.

Laren found a chair in a waiting alcove and sank into it. She had a feeling that the Longest Night was going to indeed be long. Elated, shocked, concerned—she did not know how to feel.

The Eletians followed her into the alcove, and she noticed Fastion and Donal taking watchful positions in the corridor outside. She was not sure whether it was because they were concerned about Karigan, or the manner of her return, or about the Eletians. Probably all of it.

“We shall keep vigil with you,” Somial announced.

“We have prepared ourselves,” Enver added.

“Prepared?” Laren asked incredulously. “Prepared for what?”

Enver, his face serious, removed a parcel from his pack. Laren saw a familiar sigil stamped on it. “Dragon Droppings,” Enver said, “from the master of chocolate.”

Laren thought perhaps it was time to make the candy-maker, Master Gruntler, an ambassador to Eletia.

Somial seated himself in the only other chair in the alcove, his two companions gracefully lowering themselves to the floor to sit cross-legged.

“What do you know of this?” Laren asked.

“Less than you may imagine,” he replied.

“Your less is more than my nothing.”

He conceded her point with a bow of his head. “As you may recall, one of our own, Lhean, who accompanied the expedition into Blackveil, never returned, as the Galadheon had not.”

“Of course.” It had been assumed, at least by the Sacoridians, that the two had perished in Blackveil.

“Lhean returned to us late this summer. He arrived in your city of Corsa.”

“Corsa? Where did he arrive from?”

“A piece of time almost two centuries hence. He had been held captive by the people of that time. There were no other Eletians, no Eletia.”

Laren shuddered from a sudden chill. “No Eletia?”

“A bleak thread of our story. Alas, Lhean could tell us little of that world, for not only was he a captive, but he mostly remained in . . . hmmm, you might call it torpor? to preserve himself. He did say he hid for a time among the ruins of this castle and city before he was captured.”

Laren was gripped by a sensation greater than a chill. It was colder, darker, the frigid exhalation of death.

“We believe Karigan will be able to explain much more,” Somial said, “for she was there, as well.”

Of course she was, Laren thought. It would not be the first time Karigan had surpassed the boundaries of time.