The saber quavered in Karigan’s hand. All she knew was rage.

Master Destarion hurried down the corridor accompanied by soldiers. Other menders huddled down at the far end, not desiring to venture any closer.

“Rider!” It was the first time Karigan had ever heard him raise his voice. “Put that sword down immediately!”

Sword? She gazed at her hand, at her fingers wrapped around the worn leather hilt of her saber. It was as if her hand belonged to someone else entirely, someone she didn’t know. What in the name of all the gods was she doing?

She opened her fingers and the sword fell to the floor. She stared stupidly at it there on the carpet. Its nicked and scratched blade showed hard use, but it was sharp enough to split a hair. What had it been doing in her hand? Swords were for killing . . . Hadn’t there been enough loss of life already?

In the next moment, the soldiers were on her, pinning her arms behind her back. She did not struggle, but they weren’t gentle.

Master Destarion glowered at her as if she was some sort of monster. “What in five hells were you doing?” he demanded. “This is a place of healing.”

Karigan could only stare at the sword at her feet, grief stuck in her throat.

“Rider Brennyn is alive, but barely. Your intrusion could have brought her further harm.”

Pain. It was shredding Karigan’s guts. A teardrop fell to the carpet, making a dark splotch.

Destarion kept talking, but Karigan didn’t hear him. She wasn’t really even inside herself. She was somewhere else, isolated from all others, hearing but not listening, her eyes too clouded to see anything more than shapes and light. Until she heard King Zachary’s voice.

“I believe I can explain, Destarion,” he said, striding down the corridor with a pair of Weapons at his side, and his faithful terriers following behind. To the soldiers he said, “Release her immediately.”

When they obeyed, Karigan discovered she had no legs. Destarion caught her, and Ben darted from Mara’s doorway to help.

“I brought a shock upon her rather suddenly,” the king said, a tone of apology in his voice. “This after an ‘eventful’ message errand she endured. I handled things poorly.” He was very near, but as he spoke, she only caught snatches of the conversation. She heard Alton’s name, and Ephram’s, and about barracks burning, and Mara. “Perhaps a draught would help.”

“Yes,” Destarion said. “A very good idea. See to it, will you, Ben?”

When the mender left her side, King Zachary stepped in to catch her elbow.

“How is Rider Brennyn?” he asked softly.

Destarion sighed. “Clinging to life. If there is one trait these Riders of yours share, sire, it’s their fighting spirit. Sheer obstinance if you ask me. If her burns don’t fester, and if she doesn’t give up hope, she may recover, at least physically.”

“And Laren?”

Destarion snorted. “Difficult woman! I dressed the burns on her hands and then she forced me out of her quarters and slammed the door shut.”

“Captain Mapstone?”

Karigan hadn’t realized she had spoken aloud until the king explained. “She extinguished the flames burning Mara, no doubt saving her life. I do wish she would talk to us, for she’s really the only witness besides Mara who might be able to explain what happened.”

Ben returned, bearing a cup. “Drink up,” Destarion told Karigan. “It will make you easier.”

As if someone else guided her actions, she took the cup and sniffed its contents. It was wine laced with something overly sweet. Something, no doubt, to make her sleep.

“No,” she said.

“No?”

“No.” She dropped the cup onto the floor, red wine splattering across her sword blade like blood. “No.” The word wrenched up from within. She tore away from the king and Destarion. She ran. Behind her, she heard the king commanding the soldiers not to follow.

She flung herself out of the mending wing and down stairways to the main floor. She pelted down corridors, tears streaming down her cheeks, and she didn’t care who saw.

Once she left the castle entrance, she kept running; she ran till she came to the still smoldering remains of Rider barracks, dark and ghastly against the night sky.

Little stood. The fire had greedily consumed the two-hundred-year-old building, leaving behind a few charred beams, chimneys, and ashes. The reek of smoke saturated the air.

“No,” she whispered. Had she somehow brought this upon the Riders? Was it somehow her fault? Was Prince Jametari right about her? “No.” But this time she didn’t believe herself.

Alton was gone. So was Ephram. Mara barely clung to life.

She stood forlornly there, in front of Rider barracks, stray tears tracking down her cheeks. She needed answers. The king thought the captain might have answers—the captain who should be bearing this, not Karigan. How could the captain desert her in her time of need?

She wanted answers, and she wanted them now.

At officer’s quarters, she pummeled Captain Mapstone’s door. A light flickered within, so she knew the captain was there.

Karigan wasn’t sure how long she yelled and beat on the door, but when it creaked open, she stumbled back in surprise. The captain stood there in the doorway, backlit by a lamp that filled the hollows of her cheeks with shadows. Her usually neat braid was a mess of crazed strands. She wore an old, very rumpled shirt. She looked ravaged by illness.