“Never to see the light of the living day again, eh?” she replied.

“It appears you know the law,” he murmured, bemused. “I would like to believe you are who you say, but we must make sure. Before we do that, will you identify this man who followed you?”

Two Weapons, not in the immediate group, shoved a figure forward, guns pointed at their captive.

“Cade?” Karigan said in astonishment. “What in five hells?”

He gazed in her direction, looking dazed. Blood trickled from a split lip. “Miss Goodgrave? Are—are you all right?”

“Apparently better than you.”

“They jumped me, otherwise I’d have had the upper hand.”

Joff gazed harshly at her. “Why does he call you by another name?”

“For my protection,” Karigan replied. “To keep me hidden from the empire.”

Joff nodded, accepting her explanation. “Who is this Cade to you?”

“He is Cade Harlowe, a student of archeology who studies under the man who shelters me.” She would tell no more until she was very sure of these Weapons. It was one thing to give herself away, but Cade and his connection to the opposition? Not yet.

“He will not be permitted to leave,” Joff said.

Then there was that, the law of the tombs. The Weapons had their own interests to protect. She would deal with Cade later. Now she had to know why she’d received a message written by her captain telling her to come to this place at the midnight hour.

“We need to have Chelsa come out now,” said the female Weapon. “Chelsa can tell us if this person is who she claims.”

“Agreed,” said Joff. “Dash?”

One of the Weapons strode past Karigan to the rock wall. With the light of the lanterns, she could make out the rocky overhang and the round, iron door embedded into the granite wall with its glyph of Westrion barely visible. It was as she remembered that night of Prince Amilton’s coup attempt, the door large enough to admit a coffin and pall bearers.

Dash pressed the glyph and pulled the door open a crack. It did not creak or groan, nor did it look difficult to move. Again, just as Karigan remembered. She noticed, as he spoke to someone beyond the door, that Dash wore a sword sheathed on one hip and a gun on the other. A quick glanced revealed that Joff and the others were likewise armed. Not all things had stayed the same.

Dash paused in his conversation and opened the door just wide enough to allow a small cloaked and hooded woman to slip out. Karigan could see nothing beyond the door before Dash securely closed it, but she remembered the long, rounded corridor with its smooth granite walls that led to the avenues of the dead.

The woman clutched what looked like a portfolio to her chest. She walked boldly up to Karigan. The light revealed a young face beneath the hood, younger than Karigan, but estimating the age of a caretaker was difficult for they lived out their lives underground, and their faces remained curiously pale and unlined. The light gray cloak the woman wore was as much a uniform marking her as a caretaker, as the black uniforms designated Weapons.

Cloudy pounced off his perch on the log to rub against the caretaker’s leg and purr loudly.

“Well, hello, Scruffy. Who have you brought us?”

Scruffy? Cloudy’s real name was Scruffy? It seemed so undignified.

“I am Chelsa,” the young woman said, “chief caretaker. Dash tells me you claim to be Rider Sir Karigan G’ladheon.”

“Yes,” Karigan said. “I am she.”

“I tend to believe it is true due to the circumstances. Who else would know the Heroes Portal? And Scruffy would not have brought the wrong person, but we must be sure.”

Chelsa untied the string that bound her portfolio and removed a piece of paper.

“Joff, your light, if you please.”

Joff joined her, and the two stared at the paper, then back at Karigan. They did this a few times before Chelsa asked, “Sir Karigan, would you please remove your cap?”

She wondered what they were looking at, but complied, her braid falling back into place between her shoulders.

Chelsa and Joff looked some more.

“What do you think?” Chelsa asked the Weapon.

“It is her.”

“I quite agree.”

“What is . . . what is that you are looking at?” Karigan asked.

“It is a drawing of you,” Chelsa said. “You, or your twin.”

She brought it over to Karigan, who understood as soon as she saw it. “Oh, Yates,” she murmured.

“Yes,” Chelsa said. “The Rider who made this drawing so long ago was Yates Cardell. Buried on the Wanda Plains was he, so far from home.” Her voice was wistful.

The pain of his loss lanced Karigan anew. The drawing was a page from the journal Yates had taken into Blackveil. She’d seen some of his other drawings—one of Hana, an Eletian who had not survived the expedition, and one of a nythling creature that had taken the life of Grant, another of their companions. She had not known Yates had drawn her. It was a good likeness, she thought. He’d caught her at some unguarded moment, perhaps by the campfire, maybe before they had even crossed over the wall into the forest. He had labeled it with her name, but no date.

“I cannot believe you have this,” Karigan said, “from so long ago. My understanding is that most everything from before the empire was destroyed.”

“The last king—your king—ensured it was preserved in the tombs.” Chelsa gave her a penetrating look with a slight cant of her head. Karigan did not know what to make of it. The king had preserved it? This picture of her?