“And then I came here,” she concluded. “Well, to Mill City.” She yawned. She had told him more, but not everything, by far. How could she convey the desperation she had felt when she and a blind Yates had become separated from the rest of the group? She did not tell him of Estora’s betrayal, of how the king’s betrothed had sent a Coutre forester with the expedition to murder her.

No, Karigan could not believe it of Estora, but those were his instructions, why he’d been sent, and he claimed to be doing it at Estora’s behest, so what was Karigan to think?

Cade, who now sat opposite her on an adjacent bunk, looked overwhelmed. “I did not know the depth of your travails. I’m sorry I asked you to relive it all.”

Karigan nodded, actually relieved to have spoken of it. She had not realized how the memories had eaten at her like acid. Normally she would have reported to the captain right away upon her return to Sacor City, and that would have helped, but she’d never made it back to Sacor City. At least, not her Sacor City. She set the feather aside. Enmorial, Graelalea had called it, memory.

“And those shards of mirror were pieces of the looking mask?” Cade asked.

Karigan nodded, the piece glinting in the lamplight.

“Gossham will be nothing to you after all that,” Cade said.

She thought he meant it as humor, but she hoped he was right. Not for the first time, however, she felt she’d rather face Blackveil than this empire.

A MOTE OF SILVER IN HER EYE

“So why did you hold onto that one piece of broken mirror?” Cade asked.

Karigan explained to him how she’d seen images of her own time, of her friends and the king, by gazing into it.

“May I see it?” Cade asked. She passed it to him, and he looked closely at it and into it, turning it over on his hand. “I did look at these shards after your arrival, but aside from their being double-sided and curved, neither the professor nor I observed anything extraordinary about them.” He handed it back to her.

“Most of the time I see nothing in it,” she said, “but my own reflection.”

She sat cross-legged on her bunk, and even now saw a fragment of that reflection, her own tired eyes with dark rings beneath them. Cade moved so he could gaze over her shoulder. He was near enough that she could feel the warmth of his body.

“Why did you want it tonight?” He asked. “What do you expect to see?”

His question made her feel a little guilty. She’d heard hoofbeats—the hoofbeats of an imperial messenger riding by, but nevertheless, hoofbeats. It had stirred her up inside and left her yearning for home and, well, to once more hear the Rider call and answer it. Otherwise, there was no other practical reason to seek a vision in the shard. Previous visions had done little more than connect her with home, but provided no hints about how to return or how to contend with Amberhill and his empire.

Belatedly she realized how much she had endangered Cade and their mission by sending him out to rifle through the secret compartment of their wagon. What if that guard had been more cautious? What if Cade had been caught? She gazed at her uniform spread out on the bed. What if someone barged in right now and saw it?

She closed her eyes, flooded with guilt, and berated herself for her selfishness. She could not even blame the morphia. “I don’t know if I’ll see anything,” she said. “It doesn’t work on demand, but I just felt a need to look.”

Cade’s reflection in the shard nodded gravely and he did not question her reasoning. He trusted her, she realized, now feeling doubly guilty.

She gazed into the shard, all too conscious of Cade’s closeness. If a vision was revealed to her, would they both see it? A long stretch of time passed—she did not know how much—when Cade finally gave up. She felt him draw away, heard the floorboards creak as he moved about, his yawn and the cracking of joints as he stretched. A bunkbed groaned as he lay down, and the groan was soon followed by deep, regular breaths and light snoring.

Perhaps because Karigan no longer felt under the scrutiny of another, she relaxed, and the mirror shard’s surface rippled like the surface of a lake. The vision came, at first in muted tones and indiscernible shapes, but then focused to reveal King Zachary astride a heavy warhorse she had not seen before, a tabard of black and silver over his armor. His helm was tucked beneath one arm, and he raised his sword high with the other. The banners of Sacoridia snapped behind him in a strong breeze. She had an impression of many soldiers before him, her perspective as if she were among them, and by the way he rode up and down the line, he appeared to be rallying his troops.

Where was this? Was he about to go into battle? Had war with Second Empire progressed so much since she’d been gone? She could not see the force with the king or how they were arrayed. She could not see the enemy. She wished she could hear what he was saying. He sat his horse with calm assurance, his face determined, so earnest, so much the man she knew. Unlike many who led, he would personally fight for his own country like the warrior kings of old. She knew this about him. He would not hide behind the ranks, but stand before them, and great fear grew in her, not just for the safety of her king, but for the man.

The image moved and blurred as if time itself passed before her eyes, and solidified once more into a confusing mass of steel clashing, blood smearing across shields and armor. In the center of it all she saw him, missing both his horse and his helm, his sword hacking, sweeping, thrusting. The elegance of the swordmaster’s technique became exquisite butchery in the reality of battle. Graceful, deft, merciless.