Laren had eaten earlier with her Riders, a far more merry bunch than this lot, playing jokes on one another, singing, exchanging gifts, and dancing to simple tunes played on flute, fiddle, and drum. She could have ordered one of her Riders to attend the king this night, but they deserved a holiday, a little time off, and it was no hardship for her. She stood near the entrance to the banquet hall with a dozen or so attendants of various kinds, secretaries, aides, servants, all keeping watchful gazes on their masters and mistresses.

Outside a snowstorm lashed at the windows, which would no doubt put a damper on the midnight candle walk along the streets of Sacor City. Lights to illuminate the Longest Night. The view of the candlelit streets, from the castle walls and battlements, was a sight to see, but tonight those candles would not stay lit in such high winds. Anyone going out was apt to get frostbitten for their trouble. No, it was best to stay in and sip the traditional mulled wine, and nibble on sugary pastries, and place the lighted candles in windows.

She yawned, looking over the king and queen’s guests—local aristocrats and high-ranking officials mainly, some of the queen’s kin over-wintering in the city, and just a few lord- and lady-governors. The same winter weather that quelled battles with Second Empire also made ordinary travel difficult.

They sat at three long tables laden with holiday specialties. A fish chowder had just been served. King and queen sat at the head table, presiding with quiet dignity over the dinner.

Laren yawned again, earning a raised eyebrow from the Weapon, Fastion, who stood opposite her across the hall. It was the short days and long nights this time of year that got to her. They always made her sleepy. And it was just too . . . quiet. Not a bad thing, she supposed, especially with Queen Estora in her gravid condition. First pregnancies, so early on, could be precarious.

A mild commotion broke out at the entryway, and Laren perked up. She glanced at Zachary to ensure he did not need her, and went to the doorway where guards and the Weapon Donal were holding back a trio of cloaked travelers. Not just any travelers, she realized, but Eletians. Immediately she recognized their leader, Somial, and the two who had accompanied him before.

Somial’s eyes lit up when he saw her. “Ah. Captain Mapstone, it is well to see you.”

“We were not expecting you. The king is—”

“With deference to your gracious king,” Somial replied with a bow of his head, “we are not here for him.”

“Then what brings you? What do you wish of us?” Did he have another puzzling message for her to take down to the tombs?

“Merely to observe.”

“To observe? To observe what?”

Somial pointed back into the banquet hall. At first she did not notice anything unusual. Had the Eletians come to observe the humdrum rituals of nobles at their meal?

Then the lamplight wavered. The fire in the great hearth roared up the chimney and threw off a shower of sparks. Tapestries fluttered along the walls and the air compressed in her ears. This was no ordinary draft.

The guests looked around as their cloaks and skirts rippled around them. The usually stationary Weapons cast suspiciously about trying to identify the source of the disturbance.

Then the air fractured and disgorged something—someone—out of nothing on a frigid current, as frigid as the starry depths of the heavens themselves. He, no she, flew by in a blur, landing unceremoniously on the center table with such force that she slid down its length, smashing a bowl of late harvest apples, sending goblets of wine splashing on guests. Baskets of bread flew into the air along with utensils and crockery. Hot fish chowder landed on Lord Mirwell’s lap, and among the cries of shock and consternation of the guests, his shrieks were the most piercing.

Behind trailed a line of silvery shimmering . . . somethings. Laren could not seem to work her limbs or even her jaw. It was Karigan. This much she knew. Even if she couldn’t see her Rider’s face, only one person could make such an entrance.

Zachary, who must have realized the same, stood. The Weapons ran toward the table. While Karigan moved swiftly, the motion around her was stretched out, took too long to happen. Karigan’s slide finally halted and she sat up, shaking her head as though dazed. The shimmering silver particles followed her down the table. She flung her arm up to protect her face as they impacted her. Her cry rang out clear and shrill through the hall.

Even as time slowed the reaction of those around her, Karigan climbed to her feet, her hand over her eye, crimson trickling between her fingers. Her uniform blossomed with blood where silver was embedded in her flesh. She started running back down the table, and her boots, or what Laren had thought were boots, disintegrated off her feet and vanished. Her trousers frayed apart on one leg.

“No!” Karigan cried out. “Let me go back! I must go back for him!”

When she reached the end of the table, she leaped without hesitation as if expecting the frigid air currents to carry her back from whence she came.

It was Somial’s companion, Enver, who was quick enough to catch her as she plummeted.

Normal time resumed and the banquet hall was chaos, with screams of alarm and dismay echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Weapons and guards swarmed Enver and Karigan.

Laren shook herself out of the spell that had befallen her. “To the mending wing,” she ordered Fastion and Donal. “Get her to the mending wing!”

She would leave others to sort out the disruption in the banquet hall. She was about to run after the Weapons and the struggling Karigan who yelled at them to let her “go back,” when Zachary grabbed her arm. His eyes were wild. He was in shock. They all were.