The one whose song she did hear was Zachary’s. Nari could see the bond between them as a fusing of her living light with his, with no room for Enver. Zachary’s shone in a range of blues that revealed coolness and peace, but could easily give way to fire. Hers was an appropriate green, though tinged with brown and a sickly yellow, indicating her wounding. Her green, not surprisingly, was also disposed to fire. As for the dark wings that shadowed her, they were other, and separated her from all who walked the Earth, including the one with whom she’d bonded. It was no wonder, Nari began to think, the council of the Alluvium had taken an interest in the Galadheon, and no doubt it was something of the powers that surrounded her that called out to Enver.

Nari started away, but glanced back when she heard a stirring. Zachary’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked as if to ensure the Galadheon was still there with her head on his shoulder. Her hand rested on his chest, and he placed his over it; then he closed his eyes and sighed with contentment. Peace as Nari had not seen before settled over his features.

Yes, she thought, their bond shone brightly as two flames entwined.

GHOSTS

“Kendroa Mor,” Siris Kiltyre said with a low whistle. He was a black silhouette with the flames of a pyre roiling behind him. The smoke plumed into the night sky, clouding the stars. The granite summit of the mor spilled off into the concealing cloak of the dark. “Lil Ambriodhe’s ride down this mor was already an established legend by the time I became a Rider. By some miracle she survived that ride, right through Varadgrim’s forces, and despite an arrow in her back. Somehow she reached King Jonaeus’ host. Because of her actions that night, most of her Riders survived when they’d have otherwise been massacred, and turned a prized prisoner over to the king, Mornhavon’s best friend and right hand.”

Karigan had known all this, of course, for she had been there, a ghost from the future forced to visit the past. She’d helped Lil reach King Jonaeus. The prized prisoner was her own ancestor, Hadriax el Fex.

The wind shifted, sending the smoke streaming through Siris and toward her. She turned away, not wishing to be touched by the smoke of a pyre, whether this was a dream or not.

“Ah, you are learning,” Siris said.

When the wind shifted yet again and the smoke cleared, she gazed at him once more. It was just them, the pyre, and the windswept summit of Kendroa Mor, which in her time was called Watch Hill.

“There are similarities of character between you and the First Rider,” Siris continued, “that have nothing to do with the fact that you share the same brooch. She was a very determined, driven person, Lil was, as are you, both of you willing to do the hard work, the dangerous work. There is the courage you have both exhibited, and the stubbornness. Lil thought she could solve most problems on the end of a sword, and in those days? Well, it was usually the only way. She was brash, and fearsome to even those who loved her.” He laughed. “The stories of the rows she and the king used to have! They were both hard-headed people, and tempestuous lovers.”

During her visit to the past, Karigan had last seen the First Rider on what appeared to be her death bed, suffering from the arrow wound that had also caused her to prematurely birth a child who had not survived. Karigan wanted to ask if Lil had lived beyond that point, for the history was clouded and no one seemed to know, though theories were argued back and forth. Karigan was so tired, however, that she could not summon the energy to ask.

“While there is much in common between you and Lil, there is much that is not. Your approach is quieter, more thoughtful. Perhaps, under the same conditions Lil faced, you might have turned out as brash as she. Alas, her lack of subtlety made her unsuitable to be Westrion’s avatar. She was a cunning strategist in battle, yes, but the mind has to find a deeper place in order to traverse the veil of death. There have only been a handful of us.”

The smoke of the pyre spiraled, and she was certain she could see grayed faces within it, shapes, ascending into the heavens.

“Go deep into your thoughts,” Siris said, “for wit will serve you when strength fails.” He glanced up at the sky. “And perhaps, do as the half-Eletian who travels with you does and listen to the voice of the world.”

The scene faded away, and she was aware of lying on the ground beneath a blanket, of the pain of her wounds. She reached out beside her but felt only the grainy surface of granite. She thought she recalled someone warm beside her. Cade? The king? How odd.

She opened her eyes to a gray morning, or maybe it was dusk, and silence, not even the sounds of birds. She shivered with a chill, thinking her companions had deserted her. Fog filled her vision, and when it cleared, she saw that she was not, in fact, alone. He lay on his side next to her, his head propped on his hand as he gazed back at her.

“Cade,” she said, gladness filling her heart.

But his eyes were dead. “You left me behind.”

“No, I—I love you. I wanted to go back, but I couldn’t.”

Nyssa’s whip appeared in his hand, and then he was not Cade, but Nyssa.

“No . . .” Karigan murmured.

“Yes,” Nyssa said, “you will learn to love me as a slave loves her master. What? You thought that because I am dead you would no longer see me?” She shook her head. “We have only just begun.”

WOUNDS LAID BARE

Karigan’s cry made Zachary’s hair stand on end, and he saw Fiori go pale. He and Enver leaped up at the same time.