Firebrand

“What is that room?” she asked Brienne.

“The Chamber of Proving, an ancient space from the days after the Long War.”

“My ability . . . it didn’t work in there.”

“Yes, it has the power to diminish magic. It was used during the Scourge.”

The Scourge, when those who hated magic attempted to eradicate magic users whether they were innocent of war crimes or not. Karigan touched her brooch protectively, and watched as Donal and Fastion closed the chamber’s ironbound doors and locked them.

“It was an ideal space to test you,” Brienne said, “so you could demonstrate your sword work without reliance on your special ability. Come, we will answer more of your questions over food.”

Their lamps showed the way through labyrinthine corridors. Even though Karigan was not blindfolded this time, she did not think she could ever find the Chamber of Proving again by herself. Along the way, she found out she was the first Green Rider since Gwyer Warhein to complete swordmaster initiate training.

“It is terrible to say,” Brienne told her, “but many Riders die before they complete their training, like F’ryan Coblebay, or are just too often away. It is not for lack of talent that there have been so few Green Rider swordmasters. Your captain might have been one, but her duties took her on another path.”

Karigan hadn’t known this about the captain. When they passed the records room, the doors were shut and undoubtedly locked. Karigan wondered what the time was. Past supper, certainly, if her stomach’s growling was any indication. The main passages were also quiet with the few courtiers and servants present looking askance at all the black-clad warriors with a single weary Green Rider in their midst. Karigan recognized one of the onlookers with her buckets of ashes and smiled at her.

At various points, Drent and other Weapons peeled away to attend to other duties, or went wherever it was that Weapons went. Some had houses in the city when they were not required to be on duty in the castle.

When they reached the great dining hall of the Weapons, servants were sent scurrying for food and wine, and Karigan’s wound was cleaned and bandaged. It cut across an older scar acquired during adventures down in the tombs. Happily, feeling began to tingle in her fingers. Perhaps her hand would soon be back to normal. She thought back to when Donal and Brienne had spirited her away from the records room.

“Donal,” she said, “would you have really broken my arm if I kept struggling?”

“Best,” he said, “that we did not have to find out, eh?”

Karigan glowered, feeling a surge of anger rise up again, then realized that perhaps he was joking. Then again, maybe he was not. It was hard to tell with Weapons.

While they awaited food, Fastion showed her how to tie the strip of black silk to her sword just beneath the guard. Each knot held a meaning, she learned.

“The first is for loyalty,” Fastion said as he tied the knot. “The second is for honor. The third is for protection, and the fourth is for death.”

“Death?”

He nodded. “This is, after all, a sword. Its purpose is to reap death.”

“Am I going to have to say, ‘death is honor’?”

He gave her a rare smile. “It is the motto of the Black Shields, and you are an honorary Black Shield.”

Mutton, bread, and potatoes, and bowls of barley soup, were served, and Donal and Brienne sat with Karigan to eat. The rest of the Weapons took to other tables or stole quietly away.

“As an honorary Weapon,” Brienne said, “you will receive less protest from Agemon, should you have to enter the tombs.”

Karigan looked up from her soup. “I can go into the tombs? I mean, officially?”

“Agemon will not force you to be a caretaker, but entry to the tombs should not be undertaken unless there is need.”

Karigan had no desire to enter the tombs anyway if she didn’t have to. All those corpses down there . . . Agemon, the chief caretaker, and all his fellow caretakers lived in the tombs. Whole families did. Besides caretakers, only Weapons and royalty were allowed within. All other interlopers were forced to remain as caretakers, never to see the living sun again.

“Being an honorary Weapon means,” Donal said, “that we may call upon you in need. We find you worthy, even though you have not gone through the training at the Forge.”

The Forge was the academy located on Breaker Island where swordmasters were either “forged” into Weapons, or rejected if they fell short. All Weapons were swordmasters, but not all swordmasters were Weapons.

“Because of the Rider call,” Donal continued, “you cannot attend the academy, but we have seen through your deeds that you have, shall we say, the spirit of a Weapon.”

Karigan grimaced, not seeing herself in that light, as the stone-faced, black-clad, and silent warrior lurking in the shadows.

“Though you do not guard the king and queen, or the tombs, your actions in the past have helped save all three.”

It was pleasant to receive acknowledgment for her deeds, but what sort of onus might this put on her? They would be calling on her at need? How often and under what circumstances? She was about to ask when Brienne raised her goblet of wine for a toast, and the others who remained in the hall raised theirs as well.

“Congratulations, Sir Karigan,” Brienne said. “Yours is a unique accomplishment and position.”

They clinked goblets together and drank.

“Have you any words?” Brienne asked.