“No. I mean, I don’t think so. Karigan came over to administration on an errand ages ago, but no one has seen her since. I’m looking for her. It isn’t like her to not report back after an errand.”

“Hmm.” Fastion tapped his chin with his forefinger. “She does have a tendency for trouble. Would you like some assistance? I think the watch sergeant would release me for a couple hours, especially if it has to do with Rider G’ladheon.”

Mara was relieved, and surprised, although she gathered Weapons held Karigan in some sort of esteem. They greeted her when they’d ignore most others, and in general were friendly to her as though she was one of their own. Mara assumed it had to do with Karigan’s efforts to save King Zachary’s life during Prince Amilton’s coup attempt.

“Yes,” Fastion said, “let me speak with the sergeant, then we will retrace Rider G’ladheon’s footsteps.”

And retrace her footsteps they did. Back out into the rain to barracks they went, to begin at the beginning. From barracks they sloshed through puddles to officers quarters, and then followed the path back to the castle. They walked the corridors to the administration wing, asking servants and clerks, including the surly chief administrator, if they’d seen Karigan. None recalled seeing her.

They visited Dakrias Brown down in the records room.

“Yes, she was here.”

Mara took in the room with wide eyes. It looked like it had been hit by a maelstrom, with papers strewn everywhere. She knew Dakrias to be meticulous and this was an uncharacteristic state of affairs for his work area. He himself appeared disheveled and quite out of sorts. She wondered what was going on.

“How long ago?” Fastion asked.

“I don’t know,” Dakrias said. “I’ve been . . . I’ve been busy. It was quite a while ago, I think.”

They thanked him and left him to his work. “What now?” Mara asked as they strode down the corridor.

Fastion walked with his head bowed in thought. “We’ve visited all the places she was meant to go. I—” Suddenly he halted by an adjoining unlit corridor. He stared a moment into the darkness. “Would you hand me a lamp, please?”

Mara retrieved one from its alcove. He took it and began to examine the floor. “Many feet have passed this way,” he said. “Most unusual.” He stepped into the corridor, continuing to gaze at the floor. “You see all the footprints?”

She did. Much of the dusty floor was covered in a stream of footprints. They were recent, for there wasn’t a layer of dust on them.

Fastion investigated closer to one of the walls. “May I see the bottom of your boot?”

Mara joined him, and lifted her foot. “What do you—?”

“Just as I thought,” he said. “This footprint here is very close to the shape of your boot. A Green Rider’s boot.” He pointed it out, a clear footprint not obscured by all the others. “What do you say we follow these and see where they lead?”

Mara looked hard at the Weapon. Was it her imagination, or could it be he was excited? “If you think we might find Karigan . . .”

Fastion pointed at the footprint. “I believe we might.”

He guided her deep into the nether regions of the castle. Mara had known of the abandoned corridors, but had not guessed their extent, and even now, could not. Walking into darkness, having it roll in behind you, and staving it off with only one small lamp distorted all sense of distance and time.

Fastion assured her he knew every inch of the castle, but was proven wrong when they followed the footprints into a chamber.

“The footprints end here,” Fastion said. “Fascinating, isn’t it? I’ve not been in this room before. I didn’t know it existed.”

Mara crinkled her nose, not sharing in the Weapon’s enthusiasm. It was a low-ceilinged room of rough-hewn ashlars and crude support columns, clearly a part of the original fortress-keep that had eventually grown into the present castle. Either the artistic side of Clan D’Yer’s stonecraft had not evolved when this room was built, or war-time did not permit the luxury of architectural embellishments.

Old furniture and shelving, much of it rotted beyond recognition, sat in jumbled heaps about the room, coated with dust and cobwebs. Tattered tapestries, their once intricate designs now a tangle of snarled threads of no distinguishable color, hung on the walls or had been incorporated into ancient mouse nests on the floor. Windows were shuttered.

Fastion touched the frayed edge of a tapestry and the whole thing crumbled beneath his fingers. He frowned in dismay. The lamp he carried and his black uniform had the unsettling effect of dismembering his hands and face from his body. The lamp cast gold light on his face which seemed to float in space, moonlike.

Fastion was unaccountably delighted with the discovery of this new room, but they hadn’t found Karigan. She gazed at the numerous footprints in the heavy dust. One set, the set that looked like her own footprints, simply ended at the edge of the lamplight. How could Karigan simply vanish?

Then it was like a whack in the head. How could Karigan vanish? Quite easily, as a matter of fact.

“Fastion,” Mara said, “let’s remove the shutters from the windows.”

He blinked at her as though he had forgotten she was there. Mara made a noise of annoyance and strode across the room. She tore at the rotted wood and it easily fell apart. Fastion joined her, pulling out the upper portions. In the end, it did not help them, for the window was walled in.