She welcomed Dakrias’ presence. Not that she feared the dark of the corridor and steep stairs that led to the dome, but, well, having a companion made it more palatable.

Dakrias located and lit a pair of lanterns, and as he led the way out of the records room, he asked, “Any word from, er, Blackveil?”

“No,” Laren replied. She tried to tell herself it was much too soon to hope for any news, but there was never a waking moment that some part of her brain didn’t worry about her Riders and the success of the expedition.

“You used to send Rider G’ladheon over here quite a lot,” Dakrias said. “I miss her. She understood about . . . well, you know.”

The ghosts.

They entered the low-ceilinged chamber that covered the dome of glass that rose from the floor like an iridescent bubble. Their lights rippled on color and movement, bringing to life battle and victory, the defeat of the enemy. Laren slowly walked around the dome, her lantern animating Riders on prancing steeds, brandishing their weapons at the cowering army. She could almost hear the snorts of horses and their pounding hooves, the cries of triumphant Riders and the ring of swords on scabbards. Leading them was Lil Ambrioth, the First Rider, founder of the Green Riders. She stood tall and commanding in her stirrups atop a fiery, red steed, the silk standard of the gold winged horse unfurled behind her. The enemy retreated before Lil, threw itself to the ground in front of her, or lay slain all around her and her Riders.

While the Riders and the background of the forest and mountains were vibrant, the enemy was depicted in drab grays, black, and crimson.

Laren worked her way past another scene in which Lil knelt before a moon priest with King Jonaeus looking on. There’d been some debate among the Riders about what this scene actually depicted. Was Lil receiving a blessing on behalf of the gods that she do well in battle, or did it occur after the battle, and she was being recognized for her heroism? Perhaps they’d never know.

The third scene showed the Eletian king, Santanara, giving Lil the winged horse banner that was now a cherished artifact of the Riders. The apex of the dome was illustrated with constellations and the god Aeryc looking down on the mortals beneath him, but from her vantage point Laren could see very little of it. Beside her, Dakrias produced a white cloth and wiped it across a glass panel. When he withdrew the cloth, he inspected it in his light.

“They are doing a good job,” he pronounced.

Laren wondered if it was wise to have just any clerk clean the fragile glass, but she had to admit, there was no dust or cobwebs in evidence, unlike the first few times she’d come up here. And if she wasn’t mistaken, the color in the glass looked even more vibrant.

“One of my senior clerks comes from a glassworking family,” Dakrias said, “that has created stained glass windows for many chapels of the moon, as well as private commissions. He trains and supervises the clerks who do the cleaning.”

“I see,” Laren replied, much relieved. “So he knows how to care for this properly.” She gestured at the dome.

“He does. Very much so.”

Laren slowly walked around the dome again, not sure what called to her. Just restless, perhaps, tired of talk of oncoming conflict, worried for her Riders, both in Blackveil and those carrying out their duties elsewhere.

As she came back again to the scene of a triumphant Lil Ambrioth standing in her stirrups, a detail caught her eye that she hadn’t seen before. It was in the receding storm clouds, blended in so that it almost disappeared, a symbol, more silver than the gray of the clouds. She leaned closer.

“Captain?” Dakrias asked.

“Look here.” She pointed it out to him.

Dakrias also leaned in, adjusting his specs. “I say, you are correct. Looks like . . . looks like the threefold leaf symbol of the League, but if I’m not mistaken, it’s got four leaves.”

The threefold leaf had been taken by the League to represent the unity of its member nations: Sacoridia, Rhovanny, and Eletia. She had never seen the fourfold leaf before. What did it mean? Was there a fourth ally that history forgot? Or a fourth ally that history purposely chose not to remember?

“Dakrias,” she said, “do your clerks ever clean the underside of the dome?”

“Er, why no. It had not occurred to me to have them do so. It would be a complicated undertaking requiring lots of scaffolding and such. I think we’d need people accustomed to working at those heights to do it.”

“Hmm. I imagine with all the years of lamp smoke beneath the dome that it’s quite dirty, and that maybe there are other details we’re not seeing.”

Dakrias stood there thoughtfully for a while. “I will look through the castle’s maintenance budget to see if there are any funds available for a proper cleaning by master glaziers.” He smiled. “If there isn’t, I’ll apportion the funds from elsewhere.”

Laren was pleased. If the stained glass dome hid any stories of the past that might help them in the present, she wanted to see them.

DIRT

Karigan emerged onto the main floor of the mill building gripping the bonewood walking cane, pleased to have the professor’s in hand if not her own. In her time as a Green Rider, she’d grown accustomed to bearing sidearms and felt naked without any within reach. She still regretted the loss of her saber in Castle Argenthyne, and she would take what she could get. The day would come, she vowed to herself, when she reclaimed her own bonewood and all her other belongings, and took them home with her.