Karigan peered around the chamber trying to perceive Mornhavon. He was there, but well-cloaked.

“What’s wrong?” Lynx asked. “What happened?”

“Mornhavon the Black is here,” Karigan replied, still unable to pinpoint him. He lacked a physical form of his own, but he could use others. She squinted at her companions, but they all gazed fearfully over their shoulders.

“Perhaps we should leave,” Lhean said.

“There is no running from him,” Ealdaen replied. “He is the master of the forest.”

“So we just wait?”

Karigan’s mind raced with possibilities. Maybe she could bear Mornhavon into the future again, let him inside her as before. She almost sobbed, remembering the violation of it. How would she move forward in time without the aid of the First Rider? Could she return to the moondial and move him to a piece of time in the future? Were the moondials able to do that, or did they only go to the past? If she could cross thresholds, surely she should be able to—

“Can I look at the mask?” Yates asked.

“What?”

“The looking mask. I was just wondering if I could have it for a moment.”

“I don’t think this is the time.” But she felt strangely compelled to let him have it. She took one step toward him, and then another. He reached out to receive it. “No,” she said, but her resistance crumbled and she took another step.

She glanced at the mask and saw Yates’ reflection in it, the black, cloudy aura hovering around him. “Oh, Yates,” she murmured and put her will into resisting him.

“GIVE ME THE MASK.” All pretension fell away. Yates’ posture changed, an inferno burned in his eyes. His cheeks flushed.

Karigan fought the compulsion, fought with herself to stand still. She heard swords drawn from sheaths.

“No,” she told the others “Attacking him will not work.”

“That is correct,” Mornhavon said in Yates’ voice, but without his inflection. There was no humor, no lightness. Only cruelty. “I will give this Green Rider back to you if you give me the mask.”

“Don’t do it,” Lynx said. “Yates wouldn’t want you to.”

“It would not be wise,” Ealdaen added.

“THE MASK. GIVE IT TO ME.”

Karigan closed her eyes. Tears ran down her face. She recalled what she had seen when she’d looked through the faceplate of the mask—all the stars, like the lights of celestial cities. She’d seen millions of threads, as the Eletians called them, some as fleeting as the glowing tails of comets, others solid, luminous chains. They were the possibilities and variables of individuals, of entire worlds, far too much for her to take in. If she’d the control, she could tinker with the threads, change outcomes, change whole worlds, past, present, future.

It was the realm of the gods, and she could not wear the mask. Too much power, too much influence and responsibility, a path to madness.

Mornhavon must have known what the mask was the moment he saw it, and now he coveted it. She knew he’d use the mask like a puppet master, pulling strings and rearranging the workings of the universe to his own liking.

Mornhavon as a god. She shuddered.

He hadn’t tried to force it from her. Perhaps it must be freely given, as it had been to her. Maybe Yates resisted him from somewhere deep inside. She opened her eyes. He stood before her. The semblance of her friend was only on the surface. Sweat poured down his face.

What remained of Yates? Her friend the jester, the pursuer of women, the skilled artist and cartographer? The Rider whose courage had not faltered even when he was blind and stumbling in Blackveil? She had seen threads when she peered through the mask.

Yates . . .

Mornhavon as a god.

Herself as a god. She held the power in her hand.

“You want this?” Karigan said, holding the mask above her head. She knew the Eletians were poised to strike her with their swords should she try to hand the mask over to Mornhavon.

“Yes, yes. GIVE IT TO ME.”

Through the mask, Karigan had seen endless possibilities for this one moment, the weaving and unweaving of infinite luminous strands. The decision was hers, and hers alone. Everything came down to what she did next.

“Here it is,” she replied.

With every ounce of strength remaining to her, she slammed the mask onto the floor at Mornhavon’s feet. It shattered into thousands of silver pieces. Threads snapped and unraveled, and the universe rushed out.

AN AWKWARD SITUATION

Richmont was surprised by the summons borne to him by the Green Foot runner. His cousin had done what she could to keep her distance from him since the night he had witnessed the rite of consummation. It mattered not, for he was still solidifying his position among the nobles. Most were grateful to make his acquaintance, knowing he had the ear of the new queen and could grant favors or deny them.

And now the lord-governors were beginning to arrive, having learned of the sudden wedding. They demanded audiences with Estora and Zachary. Formal requests had been refused, and Richmont knew Zachary had not fully reawakened. The assassination attempt was not discussed, and no one was led to believe Zachary was in anything but good health. Mostly Colin Dovekey dealt with the lord-governors, but Richmont insinuated himself into their good graces by promising to mention their wishes personally to the king and queen.

He’d been speaking with Lord-Governor Adolind and making his promise when the runner arrived with the summons.