The king’s meetings and audiences felt far less productive to Karigan. She stood mutely at his side as he and his other advisors met with dignitaries, courtiers, or anyone whose business was important enough to be brought before the king.

It was, on a level, interesting to be privy to such meetings, but like Mara, she felt no more than an ornament in green. The king did not need her. Rarely did he even seek her input.

There were some instances in which he did, but she was more of the mind of a teacher leading a pupil into solving a problem. He knew the answers before he even asked. She didn’t take it as patronizing; he wasn’t like that. It was his way of assessing her skill.

The king often took his meetings and private audiences not in the throne room, but in a smaller chamber in the west wing. It was richly appointed with velvet hangings and thick carpeting. A broad hearth was situated behind a smaller rendition of the throne. A long table and chairs could be moved into place if there was to be a large meeting.

It happened that a visitor arrived one midday, a young man in well made traveler’s garb, accompanied by retainers. This was the newly confirmed Lord-Governor Hendry Penburn, son of the late lady-governor.

The king stood to greet him, taking both the young man’s hands into his own, and murmuring condolences for the loss of his mother.

“She died serving her people,” the young lord said, “and I think that’s how she’d like to be remembered.”

As the king and Hendry spoke more of Lady Penburn, Karigan found herself impressed by the young man’s composure. Despite his innocent, unmarred features, he came across as competent and confident, no small tribute to his mother’s upbringing.

“I am, of course, answering your summons, Majesty,” Hendry said, “as well as seeking your blessing on my governorship.”

“You are the first to arrive,” the king said. “And you already have my blessings, but I shall formally recognize your office when all the others are present.”

Hendry half-smiled. “An interesting event it shall be, then. More likely it will be remembered by whatever judgment is passed on Lord D’Ivary.”

Karigan raised an eyebrow. She had known the Riders had been sent off on errands to each of the lord-governors, but she hadn’t known the precise nature of the messages. Now she did. The king had summoned the lord-governors to Sacor City to debate the fate of Lord D’Ivary.

It was possible the king already had something in mind, but politically, it was best if he involved the other lord-governors so his decision would not appear arbitrary, but a consensus. He would have to work hard for their backing.

To Karigan’s surprise, Hendry gazed directly at her. “Odd, but I always heard that Captain Mapstone had red hair.” A slight blush colored his cheeks and Karigan liked him all the more for it.

She bowed. “I am not the captain, my lord, but a simple Rider.”

King Zachary smiled. “Laren Mapstone has been my faithful captain and advisor for years, but I fear she has been unwell.”

“A pity,” Hendry said. “My mother spoke well of her, and was always pleased that one of Penburn Province had such access to the king.”

“She used her access well.” The king winked at Karigan. “During her absence, I’ve called upon the assistance of Rider G’ladheon here.”

“G’ladheon?” Hendry said. “Of the merchant clan?”

Karigan nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

Hendry brightened, looking suddenly very roguish. “I heard the most extraordinary story about a member of that clan, who rode astride a big chestnut to the town of Darden on market day, clad in nothing but her own skin.”

Karigan strangled a groan before it could pass her lips. Wearing nothing but her own skin?

“Is it true?” Hendry asked.

A wave of heat washed through Karigan as she noted King Zachary looking from Hendry to her with a bemused expression.

“No. Yes. But I was wearing—I was wearing . . .” Words failed her.

There was a subtle upward shift of the king’s eyebrows. Hendry waited, most intensely interested.

“I wasn’t—” She was going to melt there on the spot. “I had on—”

The king cleared his throat, and she jumped. “A nightgown, if I’ve heard the story correctly.”

Forget the melting. She was going to faint from embarrassment.

Hendry grinned. “I had always wondered about the young lady who possessed such gumption. I am very pleased to meet the inspiration of the story.”

The king’s peculiar smile did not aid her discomfiture. “I heard the story from Bard Martin.”

Karigan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Bard had told the king the dratted tale? Oh, Bard, you are a tease even beyond the grave. At least he hadn’t concocted the idea of her riding without even a nightgown to cover her. Or had he? Sadly, she would never know.

The king said, “Rider G’ladheon served in your mother’s delegation.”

Hendry sobered immediately, his eyes wide. “You did? Would it—would it be too much of an imposition for you to tell me of her final days?”

“I would do it gladly.” Contrary to her words, her heart sank, for she did not relish recalling those days when she was currently so full of her own sorrow. She did, however, understand the young man’s need to know, and perhaps her words would bring him some peace. “Lady Penburn led us bravely.”

His expression was so earnest, so grateful, Karigan forgave him for bringing up that story about her ride to Darden.