Captain Mapstone rubbed absently at her scar. “This must be examined immediately. It wouldn’t be unlike F’ryan to do this.”

“I promised Lady Estora that there would be no connection made between her and F’ryan.”

“Yes, yes, yes. I know all about that. You may leave now.”

A little piqued at the brusque dismissal, Karigan left the chamber. As she stepped through the doorway, the captain was already removing her uniform from her wardrobe. What would the message reveal if the love letter was truly a message in disguise?

Karigan walked into the wash of the silver moon, hands in pockets, tall dewy grass wetting her trousers. The ball should be about over. Hopefully it was the last such engagement she would have to attend.

Across the pasture, a solitary figure waded through the tall grass. He was a dark shadow, even in the moonlight, darkness hovering over him like a shield. In fact, he seemed to repel the moonlight.

Shawdell the Eletian’s lithe movements were unmistakable, his golden hair vibrant despite the shadow that shrouded him. He was doing what Karigan imagined all Eletians must do—walk in the moonlight, but she felt cold, wondering about his purposeful pace. She hurried to Rider barracks to escape the night.

A SILVER MOON NIGHT

“Pssst,Green Rider!”

Karigan paused in the doorway and looked wildly about. At first she could discern only the shadowy bulk of shrubbery near the barracks building, then from one of these, a woman stepped forward into the glow of the door lamp, revealing the fine oval face of the Mirwellian with the Green Rider brooch.

She stiffened. Brooch or not, the woman was Mirwellian, and Mirwellians had only caused her trouble and pain. “Something I can do for you?” she asked warily.

The woman glanced about as if someone was about to leap out of the shrubbery. It had been a strange night thus far, with a silver moon to boot, and Karigan supposed anything was possible.

“Please,” the Mirwellian said, “I’ve a message that needs delivering to—”

“Look,” Karigan said. “I’m not a Green Rider. I’m not a messenger.”

The woman snorted haughtily. “That is what you say now. Look at yourself. You wear the brooch.”

“So do you.”

The woman pursed her lips and folded her arms. It was unlikely she was used to such impertinence. Karigan was not schooled in the meanings of military insignia, and thus did not know what rank the epaulets on the woman’s shoulders signified.

The woman took a step closer. “Listen, I don’t have time for games. I need your help. I—”

“Major!”

The Mirwellian’s eyes widened with fear for a moment. Then she mastered herself; her expression cooled. She turned to watch the approach of two Mirwellian soldiers. Karigan concealed herself within the doorway, hoping she had not been seen.

The Mirwellian woman placed her fists on her hips and drew herself up into a forbidding posture. “What is it D’rang?”

“The governor. He needs you.”

“He always needs me. What is it now? Does he need someone to draw his bath?”

“It’s urgent, Major.”

“Very well.”

Karigan peered around the doorway as the woman hastened away flanked by the two soldiers. She scratched her head. Now what was that all about?

Mirwell sloshed out of the tub with the help of a wide-eyed servant. The tub was a behemoth of porcelain with brass beast’s feet. Very homey, but nothing compared to the sulfur water and plumbing of Selium. In time, he would acquire that place, too. It was far milder during the winter there than the far reaches of Mirwellton, and the hot springs couldn’t be surpassed for relieving old creaky muscles.

“A-anything else I can do for y-you, my lord?”

Mirwell chortled. The boy had gotten a good look at the ivory claw marks that crisscrossed his body and stood out especially well against skin flushed red by the hot bath. “Fetch me a towel before I die of the cold, boy.”

“Y-yes, my lord.” The boy scurried across the private bathing chamber and returned with a sheet-sized, plush towel.

“Now dry me, boy, and don’t rub my skin off.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The boy dabbed so softly he barely touched Mirwell’s skin.

“I’ll never get dry that way, boy. I’ll die of old age first. Now firm up, my lad. I’m not going to eat you.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The blotting grew more assured, but stayed gentle. Mirwell was used to the intimate ministrations on his body by others. He had grown up with servants attending to his every need, including cleanliness. Only, he had hoped that Beryl would attend him tonight, though she technically was not a servant. His personal servant’s slight illness had been a serendipitous excuse. And he supposed that, if Beryl were a man, or not even half as beautiful, he wouldn’t have even thought of it.

The boy helped him shrug into his robe. Where was Beryl? She had escorted him back to chambers after the ball, but had slipped out during a moment of inattention. Here he had hoped they could spend a little time together, to let her get to know him in a different way other than “lord-governor.”

“Slippers, boy, my feet are freezing.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The boy scuttled after the fur-lined slippers and set them by Mirwell’s feet.

“Dry the bottom of my feet first.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Mirwell put a hand on the boy’s head to balance himself while the boy dried one foot, then the other. “Do you know how to say anything other than, yes, my lord?”