The second important thing Laren noticed as he turned to gaze at himself in the mirror, tugging on the breast plate to check its fit, was that this was not his parade armor. This was true battle-worthy steel lacking decorative embellishment. The only ornamentation was the silver etching of the firebrand and the crescent moon across his breast. This was Zachary’s war armor.
They’d been slowly readying for conflict with Second Empire, making plans and contingencies. There had been minor skirmishes in the north country, but no out and out battles, no formal declaration of war. Still, she should not have been surprised to find her king preparing here in his private arming chamber on so personal a level for a time when he might have to lead his forces onto the field of battle. She found herself startled on some level. Disturbed.
I pray he has no need to go anywhere near a battlefield, she thought. Second Empire was a people without a country and only a small rebel army. Given time, they’d be brought to heel, but their forces were slippery, very slippery, and were backed by a necromancer. Should Mornhavon reappear and reinforce them . . . No, she did not wish to think of it.
Zachary turned toward Laren, faced her, but gazed thoughtfully into the air somewhere over her head. Where did his thoughts travel? What did he see?
“Your Majesty?” She stepped forward.
Her voice roused him from some reverie. “Yes?”
She bowed. “I—I was wondering if I might have a moment to speak privately with you.” She almost hoped he’d refuse her.
“Of course, but let me get this off first.”
Vasper came forward and helped the king unbuckle and remove the breastplate, which he set on an armor tree next to other pieces that made up the full suit. On the walls, alongside tapestries depicting battles of old, hung the weaponry and shields that had belonged to past kings, some marred by hacking blades, others pristine pieces of parade armor, gleaming with the heraldry of the clans and the sigil of Sacoridia. Zachary excused Vasper as well as his Weapon, leaving the two of them alone together, the westering sun flowing through the window turning the steel in the room bronze. Laren hesitated, wishing for a way out, but she must not delay any longer.
“What is it, Laren? You look . . . bereft. What is wrong?”
It was not, she thought, so far from the truth. “Zachary,” she said very softly. “I . . . I thought you should know. The standard time has elapsed and . . .” She took a deep breath. “It is time to acknowledge that Karigan is not coming home.” He stared, his eyes boring into her. There was a smoldering quality to them that had not been there before. Before the arrow. Before the betrayal of some of his closest advisors. Before Karigan had gone missing. The dark gaze did not make her task any easier. “We have removed her from the active duty rolls, and I intend to notify her father myself, in person, since he has been such a good friend to His Majesty and the messenger service.” This, she knew, would be as difficult, if not more so, than facing the king. It had been bad enough telling Stevic G’ladheon she’d sent his daughter into Blackveil. “Zachary, it has been too long. She is not coming back.”
He turned away from her to face the window. “Her brooch has not returned.”
“That is true. When a Rider has passed, his brooch will always find its way home.” She clenched her fists. She knew it all too well. “But it does not indicate that she still lives. It may be that Blackveil is too great a barrier for even a Rider brooch to find its way home, or, as has happened historically, it will take years before it returns to us. I believe the record stands at about a hundred years in one instance.” She had to convince Zachary Karigan would not be coming back. She had accepted it herself, mostly. A small part of her held out hope, but it had diminished as the days rushed by and there was still no sign or word of Karigan.
She’d watched Condor closely, hoping the horse sensed something about his Rider with that special connection that messengers and their horses shared, but it was difficult. He appeared neither content nor disconsolate. He ate his feed, but dragged, heaving long, heavy sighs. Often he just stood in the pasture with head lowered, the picture of dejection. No, he wasn’t declining, precisely, but he wasn’t thriving either. She could not divine what went on in his horse brain. Each horse handled the passing of its Rider differently.
The time had come to end the limbo, to seek closure. It was time to declare Karigan dead.
“Your Riders will be holding a memorial circle for Karigan tonight should you and the queen wish to attend.”
He bowed his head. “I feared it, that this time would come. However, I do not wish to believe it. She has survived other dangerous missions. She has always returned.”
Laren did not think she needed to remind him that Karigan’s walking into Blackveil Forest had been her most perilous deed of all. And it appeared that, even in death, she had bought them more time against Mornhavon. Lynx said Karigan had wounded Mornhavon, and the forest had lain quiescent ever since.
Zachary strode to the window, placed his hands on the wide stone sill. The lowering sun washed across his face. The window looked out on the west castle grounds where the mounted units, including her Riders, liked to exercise their horses. A barely perceptible smile formed on his lips as he immersed himself in a pleasant memory. He looked so very tired to her, and she did not think it was just the pressures of his kingship.
“It seems I failed,” he said.
“Failed? What do you mean?”
He shook himself as if suddenly recalling her presence. As he gazed at her, she saw something of the young boy she’d once known, before he’d grown into a man and become a king, hardened by all its responsibilities.