The Rider ghost beckoned her deeper into the corridor. “I’ve seen you before,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he replied. “I am Siris Kiltyre, third captain of the Green Riders.”
As they continued down the corridor, the ghost walking but not touching the floor, everything appeared to be in its place.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“Do you remember the question I once asked you?”
Karigan was about to shake her head “no,” but then it came to her. “You asked me if I knew who—no, what—I was.”
“Do you know the answer?”
“I’m a Green Rider.”
“That is only the beginning,” he replied. “You are an avatar.”
Karigan stumbled to a halt. “What?”
Siris Kiltyre gestured for her to keep moving. “I, too, rode as an avatar for Westrion,” he replied. “It is our gift to touch death.”
“No! My gift is to fade out, to disappear.”
The ghost of Siris Kiltyre glanced back at her, the motion a spectral blur. His eyes were the substance of midnight and deep wells of the infinite. She thought of the obsidian eyes of Salvistar.
“When we fade, we are actually standing on a threshold, the threshold between the layers of the world. That is our true ability: to pass through the layers, or it would be more so if we possessed the power of great mages. With our own simple abilities, we cannot cross that threshold, unless there is some outside influence. Like Salvistar. As avatar, you crossed into the realm of death. You’ve been elsewhere, too. Through time, even. Because of our ability, we are chosen to ride as Westrion’s messenger. We are attracted to death, and it is attracted to us.”
Karigan’s head throbbed with new ferocity. “You are dead,” she reminded him.
The ghost paused and faced her. “And you speak to me.”
“I asked for none of this,” she said. “I never wanted anything to do with the dead! And these…these tombs, and gods, and…and…I just want to go to bed.”
Did Siris Kiltyre smile? It was hard to tell, for he’d grown more transparent, his form being absorbed by the backdrop of the tombs. “You may never be asked to ride as avatar again,” he said. “Or you may be, but you will not remember.”
“What?” A wave of dizziness washed over Karigan. She just wanted to rest. Why did these dreams of ghosts keep plaguing her?
“You will not remember the destruction or the rising of the dead,” Siris Kiltyre continued. “No one will. These things were not part of the natural order and were reversed. Or maybe it will seem to you like images from a nightmare. You are, after all, injured and fevered.”
“Yes,” Karigan said, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Tired. Dreams. I knew it.”
“You will learn a necromancer walks the lands. Her abilities awakened over the summer.”
“Necromancer,” Karigan murmured, her eyelids heavy.
“And now you must hide, for the intruder has entered this corridor, following your trail.”
Karigan nodded, but to whom or what, she did not know, for no one was there. She needed to hide. She glanced about and discovered there were many empty sarcophagi lacking lids in this gallery. She did not take the time to puzzle out the why of it, but found a likely sarcophagus and climbed into it, clasping the book to her. Inside it was dark, good for hiding. She settled into its depths, thankful she wasn’t lying on anyone’s bones.
THE HIGH KING’S TOMB
Karigan roused from an uneasy doze at the sound of voices.
“That is Durnesian carpeting made by the hands of the Fifth House of Conover,” someone whined. “Over two hundred years old. How am I supposed to get the bloodstains out?”
Light glared between Karigan’s cracked eyelids. She buffered her eyes with her hand.
“Ah, there you are,” said a familiar voice. Brienne. “Not dead yet.”
“Are you sure?” Karigan’s voice came out as a croak.
“Pretty sure,” Brienne said.
Soon Karigan’s eyes adjusted to the light of the lamp Brienne bore. The Weapon, and Agemon, peered at her over the rim of the sarcophagus. It was really like being in an oversized bathtub.
“You are bleeding on the queen’s tomb,” Agemon said, his voice aggrieved.
“Queen? What queen?”
“The one-who-will-be,” he replied.
Brienne reached down to help her rise from the tomb. Suddenly there were other helping hands—Cera and Lennir and Fastion—and together they practically lifted her out of the sarcophagus. She carried the book out with her.
“You are bleeding,” Brienne said, looking at Karigan’s forearm. She directed Agemon to find some linen, which he did nearby, but not without some grumbling about having more blood to clean up.
“Looks like you’ll need stitches,” Fastion said as Brienne snugly wrapped the wound.
Karigan sighed.
“Cera,” Brienne said, “see if you can find one of the death surgeons.”
“Death surgeon?” Karigan asked in alarm. “What for?”
“To stitch you up. They’re good at it.”
When Brienne finished binding the wound, Karigan sank to the floor, her back against the sarcophagus she’d hidden in. Maybe it was all a dream. Death surgeons!
Brienne squatted in front of her. “You did well. Agemon and Iris told us everything. Rather unconventional, but it worked.”