Firebrand

Their stories made her restless this night, and she rolled over many times, burying her head in her pillow. The spirits became agitated when she would not listen, became more aggressive, prodding her through her blankets, and moaning. One used all its energy to move a book one inch on her desk before dissipating in a twist of smoke. The tomb cat growled.

Suddenly she sat up. “Leave me,” she commanded in a voice that was perhaps not entirely her own. The spirits obeyed and vanished, and the cat leaped away in fright. She sat dazed and puzzled for a moment before flopping back into her pillow with a sigh, and quickly fell into undisturbed sleep.

Though all the others fled, one ghost remained behind, but he did not tell Karigan G’ladheon stories. He did not prod her. They had met before, she and he, though the death god would have obscured her memory of it. He’d been her counterpart in a long ago time, a Green Rider. He had worn the brooch she now wore. As he had once been, she was an avatar of Westrion.

She had commanded the ghosts, and they obeyed.

The tomb cat came out of hiding from beneath the bed and sat on his haunches, watching the spirit with the particular disdain only cats could muster. The ghost of Siris Kiltyre laughed before he turned and vanished.

A SWORDMASTER TRAINS

The next morning, Karigan woke up stiff and sore from her exertions during the “test” the previous night, and strangely satisfied. Yes, she’d made it to swordmaster at last, but her sense of satisfaction was something more. Perhaps it was just that she had slept so well.

Before she attended to anything else, she swung her legs off the bed and reached for her new sword where it leaned against the wall next to her bonewood staff. She drew it out of its scabbard, and it gleamed coldly in the dull morning light that filtered in through her arrow slit windows. The silk band knotted beneath the guard seemed to bisect the blade from the wire-wrapped hilt. Fastion had explained that the silk absorbed the blood of enemies, that to have it stain the silk was an honor and imbued the blade with the enemy’s strength. It enlivened the blade’s thirst for blood.

While she was not particularly stirred by Fastion’s words, she was by the quality of the sword. She admired its precise, deadly form, the sharp double edges. It was unadorned but for a plain wheel pommel that balanced it so well, and the etching of the black shield on the blade. She swallowed hard and glanced at her bandaged wrist. They had fought with true edged blades last night, not just wooden practice swords. It was a tribute to a swordmaster’s skill and control that it was so.

On the side opposite the black shield etching was the maker’s mark, and she recognized it as that of one of the royal smiths, one of the finest. The kingdom, she thought, did well by its swordmasters. Or, at least, those affiliated with the Weapons, even if only honorarily.

It was not the bejeweled, ornamented sword some would want, and she preferred it that way. She admired its austerity. There was beauty in its bare form, and no mistaking the purpose for which it had been forged.

She swept it through the air until Ghost Kitty batted her elbow. She smiled and petted the cat, then sheathed the sword, pleased the scabbard was just as plain. Then her smile faltered. She wished she could tell Cade. She thought he’d be proud of her. He’d wanted to be a Weapon. Ghost Kitty rubbed against her arm, and for a time she simply stroked him and hugged him. Then, with a rattling breath, she began preparing for the day.

At breakfast, she joined Mara in the dining hall, choosing tea this time instead of kauv, and ham and eggs. She was starving.

“Oh, good,” Mara said when Karigan sat down. “You can tell me all about making swordmaster last night.”

“You know?”

“Oh, yes. The captain is fuming that no one warned her it was going to happen, and I think Drent is in for it. Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thank you.” Karigan sawed into her ham steak.

“Now tell me everything.”

“Sorry, but I’m not allowed to say anything specific about the, er, test.”

“Typical,” Mara muttered.

“Typical?”

“Typical you, typical Weapon secrecy.”

“If I could, I’d tell you the whole thing.” In fact, Karigan was dying to do just that, but she’d been strongly admonished, on her honor, not to speak of the test, or even of where it took place, to avoid ruining the element of surprise for future swordmasters. She had been assured that if she continued to climb the levels, however, that those tests would not be surprises, but “interesting” in their own way.

“Word has gotten around about you making swordmaster in any case,” Mara said, stirring her porridge. “Arms Master Gresia has asked if the captain could spare you to help with the training of our green Greenies, and maybe others if you are available and willing.”

That was quite gratifying, Karigan thought.

“The captain thinks it would be all right as your other duties allow.” Mara stared keenly at her. “The captain also mentioned your new official honorary Weapon status.”

Karigan recalled, before she left for Blackveil, how concerned Mara had been that she was being taken away from the Green Riders and turned into a Weapon.

“I am not a Weapon.”

“You are evidently enough of a Weapon to be summoned to the tombs this afternoon.”

Karigan dropped her knife and it clattered loudly on the table. “What?”

Mara nodded. “Apparently the chief caretaker wants a word with you.”