In the Gloaming of an Unknown Hour
M usic filled the Cock and Hen, and Karigan spluttered her ale as Brandall engaged in a rather comical and uncoordinated jig in the space in front of the musicians along with more seasoned dancers.
After all that had happened over the winter thus far, not least the conclusion of her court case, she’d decided it was time to gather some of her available friends among the Riders for a night out to celebrate. Life had been altogether too stressful of late and not just for her.
Mara leaned toward her. “This was a good idea.”
Karigan smiled and sipped the dark bitter ale that was the best in all Sacor City. Even “Rider Perfect,” Ty, looked relaxed, slouched in the corner of their booth nursing his third pint. Life was, at the moment, as it should be, carefree without imminent danger threatening them.
Anna and Gil pointed and laughed at poor Brandall. The other dancers had given him a wide berth, but he looked to be having a grand time, and why not? Who cared what anyone thought? Karigan decisively set her pint on the table and stood to join Brandall.
“Whoa,” she said at the woozy sensation in her head, and she grabbed the table to steady herself. She’d lost count of how many pints she was into.
Her friends teased her as she boldly, if unsteadily, walked through the crowd and clouds of pipe smoke to join the dancing.
She didn’t care about the teasing. She was here to have fun.
She led Brandall through the steps of a vigorous reel, and they tripped over one another more than actually managed to dance, laughing the entire time.
Afterward, they stumbled back to their booth, faces flushed and gleaming with perspiration.
Karigan ordered another round for her and her friends, but Mara and Anna declined, and Ty had the server just top his off, but she, Gil, and Brandall toasted one another with freshly filled tankards.
“To Masters Chester and Winston,” she cried, “the most inestimable law speakers in the lands!” And their tankards clacked together once more.
“Maybe you’ve had enough?” Mara said.
“Not nearly,” Karigan replied.
“Don’t you have arms practice in the morning?”
“Arms...” Karigan trailed off, realizing what facing Arms Master Drent would be like with a hangover, but then she shrugged and drained the rest of her tankard. Yes, she’d regret it in the morning, but it was tomorrow’s problem. Right now she felt so good.
All too soon it was time to return to the castle.
She climbed into a cab with her friends and wedged herself between Ty and Mara.
Six was a squeeze, and she giggled as the cab rumbled and bumped over the cobble streets.
She and Brandall launched into a rousing rendition of “The Miller’s Only Daughter” at the tops of their lungs causing consternation among their companions.
Anna and Gil covered their ears. Mara and Ty groaned at Karigan’s tone deafness.
“ Really, Karigan?” Mara said.
Karigan grinned. Normally she wouldn’t sing with an audience present, but the ale had loosened her inhibitions, and so she treated them to her whole horrid vocal range, or rather lack thereof.
By the time they reached the castle, however, she was yawning and desperate for her bed.
“Thank the gods that’s over,” Mara muttered when she hopped out of the cab.
Karigan linked arms with her as they mounted the steps into the castle. “I thought it was rather fun.”
“You have a one-of-a-kind voice, Helgadorf.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
“You may take it as you wish.” After a moment of reflection, Mara added, “It’s good to see you having some fun.”
“You, too,” Karigan said. “Connly overworks you. You should delegate more to Tegan.”
“Hah! I’ll take it under advisement.”
“Ty, too. He likes paperwork.”
“Now that’s a thought,” Mara replied.
Ty, who was behind them, grumbled, and Mara and Karigan laughed.
When they entered the Rider wing and reached Mara’s door, Mara said, “Good luck in the morning,” before ducking into her chamber.
Good luck for what? Karigan wondered, then realized her friend referred to attending arms practice with a hangover. Oh, that was going to be fun, fun, fun . . .
She shuffled down the corridor humming to herself before turning the corner and entering her own chamber. She flopped onto her bed, boots, coat, scarf, and all, and more or less passed out.
· · ·
A melody wormed into her mind even as she dreamed of dancing, but not that of the boisterous running and leaping about she’d done with Brandall at the Cock and Hen. Like orchestral music but warped and muted as if heard from beneath the water.
One-two-three, one-two-three
Irritated by the familiar rhythm and unable to rid herself of it, she sat up and shivered. She had not tended her fire before dropping into bed and it was dead. Then again, she was not sure if she was awake or still dreaming.
She wanted to lie back down, but the music pulled on her, compelled her to rise as though she had no say in the matter. Fine filaments of glimmering string attached to her limbs and body drew her on, directed her movements, so that she was a puppet to an unseen puppet master.
She left her chamber and walked through empty corridors caught in the gloaming of an unknown hour. Faltering steps led her into the main castle corridor, also empty and silent save for the strain of music she could not resist. It lured her onward, adrift in a fog that filled her head.
Too much ale . . . Yet, she did not feel drunk, just caught in the web of gossamer dreams.
The music did not so much grow louder as more insistent, dragging her along until she found herself standing before the ballroom entrance.
I do not wish to be here, she thought, but she entered anyway, unable to resist.
The unnatural twilight filled the ballroom as she descended the grand stairway.
The window the wraith had broken the night of the harvest ball remained boarded up, but the floor, with its checkered pattern of tiles, had been repaired and cleaned, no evidence of death and mayhem marring its surface.
It spread before her like a perfect Intrigue board.
Her feet carried her across it in a glide. She could not hear her own footsteps.
I should turn around, she thought, but her body would not obey her.
Dream or waking dream, she knew not, but soon she halted at a table with two chairs in the center of the ballroom.
An Intrigue board sat upon the tabletop, green game pieces set up on the side closest to her, and smoky gray pieces opposite.
They were made of glass, which aroused memory of the one she had found on her mantel months ago, and of the two that had appeared on her desk in her shabby little office in the middle city.
Despite her distaste for the game, she nevertheless pulled out the chair and sat, obedient to whatever power compelled her.
A gray cloud billowed forth and formed into the shape of a man in a gray cloak.
Shawdell. Of course. He was her puppet master.
“Ah, Galadheon.” He pulled out the opposite chair and sat. “So good of you to join me for a pleasant game of Intrigue.”