“No, actually I plan to leave—”

“I see. When will you be returning?”

Karigan gaped. “Excellency, I don’t plan to return. I’m going home to my family. My father is a merchant. It’s spring, and he will need me.”

The king’s expression froze, and she wondered what he did not want her to read. As a king, he must be a master at masking his expressions, or otherwise possess no political leverage, just as a merchant must maintain a neutral gaze during a transaction.

“Are you sure?” he asked her. “After all, you are a Green Rider now. At least in name if not legally sworn in.”

“I’m not a Green Rider,” Karigan said, maintaining her self-control admirably, she thought.

“I could command you to sign papers to become a Green Rider, to work in my service, but I don’t think that will be necessary, and I can only guess how much you would resent it. Coercion is not my usual tactic. Laren—Captain Mapstone—informs me that being a Green Rider is more a matter of spirit than desire, a compulsion, if you will. Something about hoofbeats.” Zachary strode across the balcony to the telescope and bent down to peer up at the moon. He pulled back, blinking. “It’s bright.”

Karigan blinked, too, as if struck. King Zachary had reminded her of someone, the someone she had seen in the brass telescope of the Berry sisters. Images she had seen, of a man much like Zachary, with brown almond-shaped eyes, but slightly older with careworn lines on his brow, imploring her not to . . . not to go away; that he needed her and could not bear to lose her. Karigan trembled. A future vision? Blood drained from her head and she wobbled.

The king steadied her. “Are you all right?”

“No! Yes. Please, just stay away. I’m leaving. I’m not a Green Rider and never will be.”

Driven by a fear that the future might happen if she stayed there with him, with his hands on her arms, she ran from the balcony without bowing, ran past the Weapon Fastion who stood in the doorway, his usual stoic expression scandalized. When she erupted into the glare of the ballroom, a few heads turned to look, then resumed conversation and sipping wine. The orchestra tuned up, and the sound of off-key notes clamored in her ears.

Alton D’Yer tugged at her sleeve. “Karigan, are you—?”

She yanked her sleeve away from his grasp and pushed unapologetically through the guests in desperation to leave. She broke free near the entrance and looked back over her shoulder. King Zachary stood by the balcony doorway watching her with a bemused expression, Alton D’Yer was lost in the swarm of aristocrats, and the Eletian, though in the midst of a group, seemed to stand apart, almost godlike with his golden hair and perfect features. He caught her eyes and smiled. That smile of secrets! She was not warmed by it, and without looking back, she darted into the darkness of night.

King Zachary, indeed! she fumed. Needs me, does he? Humph! Yet, inside, she shook. The thought of it, the king needing her, overwhelmed her. It terrified her.

She stalked down the corridor to her room. The silver moon spread shadow bars across the floor from the many-paned window. All else was submerged in darkness. From her pocket she pulled the moonstone, which illumined the room to the darkest floor cracks, seeming to draw moonlight from outside until all was cast in silver. Karigan watched in wonder until a tiny gasp from behind startled her.

Sitting in the chair by the table, was a woman cloaked and hooded in black. A length of black silk veiled all but her eyes, and she looked like one of the wives of some lord of the Under Kingdoms. Were there tattoos under the veil? Karigan reached for a sword that was not there, and considered hurling the moonstone at the intruder.

As if guessing her thoughts, the intruder raised her black-gloved hands defensively. “Please, I am no enemy.” The accent wasn’t of the Under Kingdoms, but of some eastern province. Coutre, perhaps? When Karigan did not respond, she added, “I am Estora. You delivered the last letter from my lover, F’ryan Coblebay.”

Karigan blinked, but did not relax her tense body. “Then why do you come at this hour? Why do you hide your face?”

The woman’s green eyes glanced down, and she shuddered with a sigh. “My family would never permit a liaison with a commoner such as F’ryan. Our affair was a secret one. I hide myself even now. Should my family ever find out that I loved F’ryan Coblebay, they would be shamed and cast me out.”

That was no way to live, Karigan thought, her own revelation about King Zachary as the image in Professor Berry’s telescope set aside. She relaxed and sat lightly on her bed, her hand passing over a woolen coverlet. “I’m sorry,” she said, not sure whether she meant F’ryan’s death or her family’s restriction.

Lady Estora looked far away. “The Riders always helped. They brought me in secretly to see F’ryan. When asked, they knew nothing of us. And here you have helped again, by bringing this letter.” She drew a crumpled piece of paper from her cloak. “Mel tells me you were the last to see F’ryan alive.”

“Yes.” Karigan had no wish to elaborate she had seen him after death, too. “He died bravely.” What else could she say? She died bravely, her aunts had said of her mother.

“As I knew he would. Often I believed he was half crazy and too daring. Many times he risked death to visit me in my family’s house. It was reckless, but I loved him for it.” The woman’s eyes welled with tears, the veil darkening above her cheeks. “I’ve cried often, but could share my sorrow with no one. I just wanted to thank you for bringing this letter to me, and for finishing F’ryan’s mission. But . . .”