Then the light whisked out of existence. Karigan halted as complete darkness settled over the corridor. It was eerily quiet except for her own breaths.

Now what?

What became of the mote of light? What had the call drawn her into?

The light of the main corridor had vanished far behind her. Should she feel her way back? She had to admit, with some acerbity, that running down an abandoned corridor without a lamp hadn’t been the brightest move she’d ever made. She reached out and felt for the wall. The stone was cold beneath her hand, but it was real, and it would help her find her way.

The sound of weeping stopped her. Someone else was back here with her, and not far away. The bearer of the light?

The empty corridors carried the weeping to her from several directions, but it appeared to originate from deeper within the abandoned corridors—opposite the direction she wished to go. She hesitated, wanting to return to the light and sanity, but what if the person who wept was hurt or sick?

Or just as lost as I am?

With a sigh of exasperation, she felt her way down the corridor in the direction of the weeping, deeper into darkness. A couple times her hand fell upon musty, tattered tapestries, which crumbled beneath her fingers.

The weeping grew louder, then faded. The corridors twisted the weeping into moans of a thousand tortured souls. Sometimes, it sounded like the whimper of a child.

She did not know how long she went on like this, groping in the dark, for there was no way to measure time in this fathomless place. She couldn’t even see her hand in front of her face.

She wondered if enough time had passed for anyone to miss her, and if they’d come looking for her. Captain Mapstone would not be amused by this latest escapade of hers. Probably she’d be assigned extra training sessions with Drent as punishment.

Her hand fell into nothingness where the wall intersected with another corridor. The air changed subtly upon her face, and some distance away, a tiny light flickered. It pierced her eyes after so long in the dark.

The weeping grew increasingly louder, but no longer distorted by echoing corridors. As she approached, the light did not retreat as it had before. She discovered it was a sputtering candle on the floor, the flame on the verge of drowning in its own melted wax. Beside it sat a young boy, maybe seven or eight, with his knees drawn up to his chest. The light fluttered against his tear streaked face. His breeches were ripped at the knees and dirty.

“What’s wrong?” Karigan asked, but he didn’t respond or even look up at her.

She knelt beside him. “What’s wrong?” When he still didn’t answer, she placed her hand on his shoulder. It passed through him. She jerked her hand away and drew a sharp breath.

Was he the ghost, or she?

She patted herself. Solid and warm. Her greatcoat was still damp from the rain, but it had taken on a silvery green cast. She felt real enough. Perhaps ghosts felt real to themselves, too.

No, I’m alive. Was the boy?

The candleflame sputtered out and after a moment’s afterglow, everything plunged into pitch black. The boy whimpered and sobbed harder.

Poor boy, Karigan thought. He’s stuck here and I can’t help him. I’m as stuck in the dark as he is.

Even as she finished the thought, another light appeared at the end of the corridor and approached steadily. It was a bright burning lamp that wrapped its bearer in a golden sphere. A Green Rider.

Karigan smiled in relief. Leave it to a Rider to come to the rescue. But as the Rider drew closer, she did not immediately recognize her. There was a strong familiarity, but . . .

I thought I knew everyone . . . Karigan started to run through names in her head, but then the Rider spoke.

“My prince?”

Prince?

The boy sniffed and looked up.

The Rider knelt beside him, carefully setting the lamp on the floor, and hugged him fiercely. Her expression was one of intense relief.

“I was so worried! Joss is tearing himself apart and your grandmother is beside herself. Thank the gods I found you.” Now she grew stern. “I thought I warned you not to wander around back here. These old passages are like a maze and it might have been days before we found you. What possessed you?”

The boy sobbed against the Rider’s shoulder. She caressed his light, almost blond hair. “Am—Am—” He hiccuped. “Amilton.”

The name sent a shockwave through Karigan.

“Amilton?” Anger suffused the young woman’s face, but her tone remained gentle. “Has he been bothering you again?”

“Y-yes.”

Amilton was dead. How could he—? Then with startling clarity, Karigan realized who the young Rider was: Captain Mapstone.

Red hair, bound back in a characteristic braid, shimmered in the lamplight. A young Captain Mapstone of many years ago, maybe Karigan’s own age or close to it. There was no gray sweep at her temple, no creases about her eyes, and most startling of all, no brown scar marring her neck. Her features looked more ready to smile and held a sense of lightness absent in the Captain Mapstone Karigan knew.

If this was Captain Mapstone of many years ago, then the young prince could only be—

“Zachary,” the Rider said, “you musn’t let your brother bully you. Or, at least, don’t let him know you’ve been bullied.”

“He was . . . he was teasing Snowball. More than . . . more than teasing.” He looked ready to burst into tears again.

Captain Mapstone—she would have been Rider Mapstone back then—set her mouth into a straight line. “I know Snowball is your favorite, and Amilton knows it too, which is why he chose to tease her. Pyram promises he won’t let Amilton near any of the dogs again.”