“Later, after we learn what is happening in the tombs,” Fastion said. “You told me she was fine, and that is good enough for now.”

Karigan had to admire his singleness of purpose. She picked at a sausage roll, but found it did not appeal to her. The tea did. It wasn’t long before Brienne returned with a uniform and longsword. She stood before Karigan. Karigan set her teacup down.

“What? What do you—”

“There are too few of us,” Fastion explained, “and you have been in the tombs before. You know the law. Therefore you must go as one of us.”

Karigan gaped. Only Weapons and royalty were permitted in the tombs, as well as the caretakers who lived out their lives there. Anyone else caught breaking the law by entering the sacred territory beneath the castle was doomed to remain in the tombs forever, to become caretakers themselves and never see the living sun again. A couple years earlier Karigan and a few others were permitted passage through Heroes Avenue by king’s will alone.

“But—” Karigan began.

At that moment, Lennir returned at a run. “The doors to Heroes Avenue are barred,” he said, not at all out of breath.

Fastion cast his granite gaze on Karigan. “Dress.”

“But—”

“You are our sister-at-arms,” Brienne said more kindly. “Ever since the usurper tried to take the throne from King Zachary have we regarded you as such.”

Karigan could only blink.

“And for your actions since,” Fastion said. “Otherwise we would not even consider clothing you in our black because of all it represents. Few in the history of the land have been accorded such honor and regard outside the corps of the Black Shields.”

Maybe the fever and exhaustion skewed Karigan’s hearing. Maybe the stallion hadn’t brought her to her own world after all, but to a slightly altered version of it.

“I’m a Weapon now?”

“No,” Brienne said, “that requires years of specific training and sacred ceremonies. You are more of an honorary Weapon, but with that honor comes responsibility.”

“Such as our need for you now,” Fastion said.

Before Karigan could protest, and right there in the hall of the Weapons, Brienne and the other woman, Cera, helped her strip out of her borrowed Rider uniform and change into black; first the black linen shirt with intricate patterns embroidered onto it with ebony thread, then the leather trousers, followed by the padded doublet. They buckled hard leather guards around her wrists, but agreed gloves would not fit correctly over her bandaged hands. As she had with her Estora disguise, Karigan kept her own boots. They were, after all, black, and very similar in design to that of the Weapons’.

The two women watched as Karigan detached her brooch from her Rider uniform and clasped it to her doublet. An odd light filled their eyes. Did they see the brooch as any Rider would or did they only see her handling an invisible object or maybe a piece of costume jewelry? She knew Weapons were well aware of Rider brooches, and that they distrusted magic as did most Sacoridians, but their regard was somehow of a different nature, on a more intense level.

Overall, Brienne’s uniform was a good fit, and so was the longsword she strapped to Karigan’s waist.

“I don’t know how good I’ll be at sword work,” Karigan said, raising her bandaged hands.

“If things are well, you won’t need to draw a sword,” Brienne said.

The man Fastion sent to find more Weapons returned with only a half dozen.

“The main entrance to Heroes Avenue is closed to us,” Fastion said, after explaining to them what was happening.

Karigan wondered if they’d have to ride all the way out of the city to the secret entrance, the Heroes Portal, that lay in the side of the hill on which both city and castle stood.

“Our investigation will begin in the Halls of Kings and Queens anyway,” he continued. “With luck, that entrance is not known to the enemy and has not been barred.” He then raised his hand and clenched it into a fist. “Death is honor!”

“Death is honor!” the others echoed, imitating the fist gesture.

Good heavens, Karigan thought. She hoped the motto did not apply to her. She was, after all, only an honorary Weapon.

She followed the Weapons as they filed out of the hall, feeling awkward and unfamiliar even to herself in black when she should be in green. It was almost like she had not yet caught up with herself and just had to keep running or lose herself entirely.

Like I’m shadowing myself, she thought.

She kept reminding herself she was a merchant’s daughter as she strove to keep up with the Weapons and wiped perspiration from her face with the back of her hand. I’m also a Green Rider. And now I’m apparently some sort of a Weapon, but not. Maybe her entire existence had become a theatrical, or maybe a masquerade where she portrayed someone different every day. Did she really know who she was anymore?

She shook her head. No use trying to think about it. She could only keep moving forward.

FOLLOWING THE CAT

The journey through castle corridors swirled by in a hazy dream. Karigan was more concerned with keeping up with the Weapons than taking in her surroundings. Fastion led them at an amazing pace on his crutches. Before she knew it, they’d entered the Rider wing. The corridor was dimly lit at this hour, whatever hour it was, and most doors were shut.

She passed her own door—it was ajar and she longed to slip into her room and go to bed. Maybe Fastion wouldn’t notice? Wishful thinking.