“This is not real,” she whispered. “Not real, not real…”

It was the sort of trick the white world liked to play, to send such images, like a bad dream needing interpretation.

She steeled herself, continuing to tell herself over and over that it was not real, and set off after the stallion. Among the uniforms of the dead she noticed provincial colors—the cobalt of Coutre, the blue and gold of D’Yer. Solid black caught her eye—a Weapon. And there was green. She refused to look at faces, to even look at the horses, but her gaze drifted and before she could stop herself, she saw Ty beneath Crane, his eyes open but dull, a wound deep in his gut crawling with maggots.

“Not real,” Karigan chanted. “Not real.”

She hurried the best she could. In places the bodies were so thick and intertwined she had to take a circuitous route, and during one of these her gaze was stolen again by familiarity—a banner of silken green with a gold winged horse rising, the ancient banner of the Green Riders woven and embroidered by Eletian hands, now bloodstained and torn, and lying across the body of Captain Mapstone like a shroud.

“N–no!” Karigan cried, but her eyes were drawn just beyond to a mass of slain warriors in black that had been protecting one man, all cut down by some force greater than themselves. In their midst lay King Zachary, splendid in his silver and black armor, his amber hair swept back from his face, a trickle of blood flowing from the edge of his mouth into his beard. His body bristled with arrows.

“No!” Karigan cried again. Her voice echoed across the silent landscape and raised movement among the dead. Flapping wings, stabbing beaks seeking flesh.

Overhead a monstrous avian circled, dragging its shadow across the battlefield and Karigan. The creature shrieked and dropped to the ground, then hopped over the corpses with wings spread until it stood upon King Zachary’s chest. Its head swiveled from side to side at the end of a snakelike neck and, after one glance at her, plunged its beak into King Zachary’s throat.

She screamed in rage and was about to throw herself at the avian when she heard the unmistakable twang of an arrow and the thud of impact. The avian slumped to the ground, its head hitting a discarded shield with a definitive clunk. The arrow, with its green fletching, jutted from its neck.

She turned and there was the watcher again, holding a short, stout bow. She caught the glint of a golden brooch, and this time she could tell he was garbed in a Rider uniform of ancient vintage, with mismatched mail and leather, and a sash of blue-green plaid across his chest. The horn of the First Rider rested against his hip. He nodded to her and mounted a white horse, and when he cantered off into the plains, he seemed to ride a cloud.

She squinted after him as he vanished into the distance. His appearance sparked a vague memory—from a dream? That was it, she thought. He had come to her in a dream. But all she could remember about it, besides the Rider himself, was an unanswered question that niggled the back of her mind like an itch, a question she could not answer because it was lost to her; she could not recall it.

“Not real,” she murmured. None of it. Not the dead, the gore, this world; but she was thankful for the intervention of the watcher, even if he wasn’t real either. Or was he more than a simple dream vision? Karigan sighed. Maybe some questions were better left unanswered. All she knew was that the white world was full of deceptions; that it drew images from her mind and made them seem real. She could trust nothing she saw there.

They set off again, Karigan not looking back, trying to focus on nothing but the stallion ahead of her. But more movement caught her attention—three figures walking toward them. What now? Survivors of the battle? Other travelers? Illusion?

When they met, Karigan recognized one of them.

“Merdigen?” she asked incredulously.

He squinted at her. “You again? Did you cause this mess?” He swept his hand to take in the battlefield.

“What? I—”

“Figured as much,” he grumbled. “And I see you found the horse you were looking for.” Then he peered more closely at the stallion and jerked back. “Oh! I see. Dear me. Interesting company you keep.” And he gazed long and hard at Karigan.

“Are you really here?” she asked Merdigen.

“Are you?” he countered. “Why is it everyone always asks me if I’m real?” He shook his head. “How many times have I had to explain I’m a magical projection of the great mage Merdigen? Hmph. Well, I haven’t the time for a conversation, fascinating as philosophy can be. The others and I are looking for the right bridge.”

The man and woman who accompanied him bore walking sticks and packs as he did. The man had a long beard like Merdigen’s, though it was rusty in hue, and the woman was tall and willowy and wore a sort of leaf hat. Or maybe she just had leaves and twigs sticking out of her hair—it was hard to tell. The green of the leaves, fresh like spring, defied the bleaching effect of the white world, bringing Karigan visual relief that had nothing to do with corpses.

“Who are—?” Karigan began.

“Radiscar,” Merdigen said, and the man bowed solemnly. “And Mad Leaf.” The woman smiled, looked on the verge of giggles, which was more unsettling than humorous. “And before you ask, yes, they are magical projections, too. We’ve been on a long journey.”

Before Karigan could speak again, Merdigen started ambling off with the other two behind him. “A most unpleasant mess this is,” he grumbled. “Farewell.”