Presently Mara returned. She stood in the doorway and glanced about as if dazed, then strode to the table and sat on a chair next to Karigan.

“I didn’t have a chance to say it before,” she said, “but I’m glad you’re back. Your visit with your family went well?”

Karigan nodded. Maybe later, when some time had passed, she’d give Mara the details. At the moment, all of that seemed far away and unimportant.

“Mara, what happened to Osric? Where was he?”

Mara rubbed her eyes as if to wash away some image. “He was keeping watch on Birch’s movements. Evidently he was caught.”

Birch. Second Empire. They’d already lost Constance and Harry in the darkest months of winter. They’d been watching Birch, too.

“King Zachary thinks Birch is mocking us,” Mara continued. “That’s why he sent Osric back the way he did. Our Riders are good, but Birch is saying he’s better, and he knows the king is spying on him.” She clenched her hands into fists. “Osric is being prepared for the trip home to his mother in D’Ivary. I already sent Tegan to take her the news.”

“And Petrel?”

“She’ll be buried in the pasture.”

Karigan nodded. No Rider horse went to the knacker. Still, she thought it sad horse and Rider would not be laid to rest together, but she knew how impractical that would be. She did not doubt the pair were together in the afterlife anyway, galloping among the stars.

“Who is Elgin Foxsmith?” she asked.

Mara actually smiled, though it was a tired smile. “My predecessor, or one of them. He was chief when our captain was a mere Rider. She asked him to come help with the new Riders a couple weeks ago, but we’d given up on him. Then there he was today. His timing, frankly, couldn’t have been better.”

When there was no more to be said, Karigan helped Mara put Yates to bed. Garth was too big and heavy to move, so they left him in his armchair staring into the fire.

Finally Karigan went to her own chamber. The door was cracked open, and when she stepped inside, she found the blanket on her bed covered with clumps of white cat hair as usual, and the purveyor of that hair lying on her pillow with his legs in the air. Ghost Kitty, who was in fact not at all a ghost, but one of the felines whose duty it was to patrol the tombs for rodents, barely acknowledged her entrance with a twitch of his tail.

“Well look who’s made himself at home,” Karigan said.

She set aside her saddlebags, removed the message satchel from her shoulder, and at last took off her greatcoat. She sat on her bed and stroked Ghost Kitty’s cheek, and was rewarded with a resounding purr.

She’d have nightmares tonight, but at least she wouldn’t be alone.

OF CIRCLES AND FORM

The Riders held a memorial circle for Osric, a practice conducted by Riders centuries ago, then forgotten, only to be rediscovered and revived thanks to Karigan, who had witnessed such a ceremony when she was pulled into the ancient past by wild magic.

Dakrias Brown, the castle’s chief administrator, gave over his records room for the purpose. The newer Riders stood in wonder as they gazed up at stained glass windows lit from behind with lanterns, bringing to life in rippling colors the exploits of the First Rider at the end of the Long War. At one time the records room had served as the castle library and the domed glass panels had originally been open to the sunlight, but they were eventually closed in to allow for the castle’s expansion. Some thought the blocking of the windows was actually King Agates Sealender’s expression of antipathy for his own Green Riders.

Captain Mapstone led the memorial circle, speaking of Osric and his deeds, and her own fond memories of him. Then she said, “I remember Osric.” And everyone responded, “Osric.” After that, around the circle they went, each Rider speaking the name of some comrade who had fallen in the line of duty.

Karigan fancied spirits hovered in the shadows, in and among the tall shelving that housed hundreds of years of dusty administrative records; that they looked down upon the assembly of Riders to offer their own respects. She couldn’t be sure they were really there, of course, but it seemed to her that presences other than the Riders filled the room.

Not to mention the records room had a reputation for being haunted ...

The following day, the Riders bore Osric’s coffin, draped in black, from the castle’s chapel through the maze of corridors, the sound of their boots on stone counterpoint to the music of some noble’s party spilling out of the conservatory.

The castle housed many different worlds: that of the monarch, of course, and all those who were close to him, the servants and administrative staff who helped run both castle and country; military personnel; various and sundry nobles; and finally, visitors of all kinds, from lowly commoners seeking an audience with the king to diplomats from other realms. Sometimes the various worlds intersected, but class and status often ensured they did not. As a result, there could be dozens of concurrent, but unrelated and uncoordinated, activities taking place among the different worlds.

While the kitchen staff embarked on a major inventory of pantries and cellars, a noble might be hosting a party when, in another part of the castle, the king’s messengers mourned the passing of one of their own.

Intellectually, Karigan knew all this, but it still left a bitter taste in her mouth as they approached the conservatory. A drunk aristocrat slumped against the corridor wall raised his cup to the passing Riders with a foolish grin on his face.