“What?” But her other self—her future self?—could not hear her, and hastened away, her lamplight fading with her retreating footsteps.

“Wait!” Karigan cried. She tried to stand so she might follow, but she hadn’t the strength and the effort left her trembling. She was trapped again in complete dark and silence, the cold penetrating to her very bones.

I’ve come too far forward. Now I must go back . . . She mulled over the words of her other self, and wondered how she was supposed to “go back.” How—?

She brushed her brooch with her fingers and the traveling took her hurtling away through time once again.

WHISPERERS

“For the glory of Arcosia,”Weldon Spur lock said.

“For the glory of Arcosia,” the others intoned.

One by one they lifted their hands, palms facing the center of the circle. Each palm was tattooed with a dead black tree.

They were the true bloods, his followers, direct descendants of those who, a thousand years ago, had come from the Arcosian Empire on the continent of Vangead to colonize and incorporate new lands into the empire, and to seize whatever resources the lands might yield. Particularly resources of a magical nature.

The true bloods now wore the smocks of bakers and blacksmiths, carpenters and wheelwrights. They might be tanners, coopers, laundresses, and yes, a chief administrator, but their ancestors had once been among the elite of Lord Mornhavon’s forces. Despite the fact their ancestors had been stranded here in these new lands following the Long War, their pride of empire never faded, even with successive generations. The descendants called themselves Second Empire.

Over time, lineages were documented—records now entrusted to Spurlock, as they had been to his father, and his father before him. The names of all descendants were known, and Second Empire inculcated its children from birth to the rightness of the empire, its customs, and the fragments of its language that had survived a thousand years. The true bloods married among themselves, not sullying their lines with those who had persecuted their ancestors after the Long War.

Second Empire retained a network of sects across the provinces, using trade guilds and business relationships to allow its members to congregate without arousing suspicion. They assimilated into Sacoridian culture only to protect themselves and their purpose; to remain invisible. Their heritage and artifacts from the imperial past—whatever fragments could be preserved—remained hidden, always hidden.

Of course, there had been many who broke with Second Empire over the generations and the group’s numbers were not as great as they had been. Some who had abandoned the cause were non-believers, or just not interested in their heritage or events of hundreds of years ago, and faded into the fabric of Sacoridia and Rhovanny, marrying outside the true blood. Others, more vocal in their condemnation of Second Empire, were dealt with severely, and permanently.

Candlelight and Spurlock’s lamp flickered across the faces of the faithful, leaving the shabby background of the chamber in shadow. This was an ancient room they had chosen for their meeting. Spurlock wondered what the first high king, Jonaeus, would think of the enemy meeting in his halls. No doubt he was writhing in his grave. For that matter, what would the current king, Zachary, think? Spurlock grinned at the thought of them meeting right under the king’s nose.

“The signs are upon us,” said Madrene the baker. “I’ve heard talk of some strange things afoot in the countryside.”

“Like a stone deer in Wayman,” Robbs the blacksmith said. “The city is full of such talk.”

“Yes, perhaps they are signs,” Spurlock said slowly. “I have believed all along that Blackveil is awakening.”

Carter, the wheelwright, scratched his chin, “What word do you receive from the wall?”

“Nothing in a good while.” Spurlock fingered the cool silver medallion he usually wore concealed beneath his robes. His ancestor had worn it a thousand years ago. His ancestor had been a celebrated general, and Lord Mornhavon gave him the medallion as a mark of favor. “A lack of a report means nothing. I am not concerned.”

“If the forest is awakening,” Madrene said, “and the D’Yers find a way of fixing the breach—”

“Yes, dear Madrene, I know.” Spurlock used as placating a tone as possible. “But you think they can really relearn craft they lost hundreds of years ago?”

This spawned a whole new debate among the group. Spurlock let them have at it. He would interject as necessary to soothe ruffled feathers. It was a sign of his leadership that they all listened to him for his counsel and deferred to his wishes. Should the empire rise again—and Spurlock knew in his bones it would be soon, and in his own generation—he would be a favored leader.

As he only half-listened to the debate, it felt as if someone watched, impossible as that could be. He glanced over his shoulder, but saw nothing except the moving shadows of the group.

He shuddered and returned his attention to the debate. He was letting the superstitions of that fool Dakrias Brown get to him.

Voices rasped against the inside of Karigan’s skull; agitated whispers that would not go away. Didn’t they know she was resting? She was so very tired, on the brink of sleep. She needed to escape the pain in her head, and she was so cold, but the whisperers would not leave her in peace.

She cracked her eyes open, and through the haze, saw the whisperers. They were huddled together in a circle, the glow of light falling upon faces and etching the shapes of bodies out of the dark. Their shadows danced weirdly against stone walls. Their features wavered in her vision as though they were under water, and she seemed separated from them by a hundred miles, though they might be just a few yards from her.