Firebrand
Page 152

“There were spirits in the smoke. That’s what Enver said, and that somehow you had inhaled them.” There was an edge of incredulity to Estral’s voice.
It came back to her now. “The smoke, it—it was forced on me, and I saw through their eyes, the lumbermen, being attacked by Second Empire.”
“Did you see my father?”
“No.” She closed her eyes.
“After that,” Estral continued, “Enver brought you in and tried to calm your coughing.”
“I think I remember that.”
“Then you probably remember going back outside and talking to the smoke.”
“What?” Karigan rose on her elbows. “Wait . . .” That had seemed all part of a dream. “That really happened?”
“Yes.” Estral gazed at her with a strange look in her eye. “I am not exactly sure what you did. You sort of changed your voice . . .”
“What did I say?”
“You told the smoke, the apparitions, I guess, to sleep.”
Karigan eased back down into her blankets. “I don’t remember.”
In the flickering light of the fire, Estral watched her friend drift back to sleep, her breathing easier. This time she did not writhe and mutter, but rested peacefully. Estral had heard, of course, about Karigan’s various adventures since that day long ago when she’d run away from Selium. Hearing was incredible enough, but watching her fight off groundmites, or commanding smoke apparitions to sleep? That was something else entirely.
She recalled the scene of Karigan standing out by the pyre, surrounded by smoke. There was a faint shimmer about her. Estral had not been able to see her clearly, whether it was the smoke or—or what? Karigan had ordered the ghosts to sleep in a voice that was overlain with the authority of the heavens.
She tried to recall Karigan the schoolgirl, the troublemaker. Much had happened to her since those days in Selium, and although the girl Estral had once known reappeared at unexpected moments, she wasn’t sure what to make of this other Karigan, this Karigan who crossed through time and faced Mornhavon the Black and talked to ghosts. She only knew that she must write it all down, and in doing so, maybe better understand. But even Karigan did not appear to understand, herself.
Enver entered the building. When he reached her, he said, “How is the Galadheon doing?”
“She drank some water.”
“Ah, that is good. Tomorrow she should have some chocolate.” He knelt beside Karigan and placed his hand on her brow. “Yes, she is easier.”
“Enver, do you know what happened out there?”
“She put the spirits to rest.”
“Yes, but . . .” Estral tried not to think about how outrageous it sounded. “How can she do that?”
He now sat cross-legged on the floor. He gazed down at Karigan before speaking. “You know that her special ability allows her to cross thresholds, yes?”
“Like going into the future?”
“When there are extraordinary forces at work, yes. But otherwise, she can fade out, turn invisible, as it were. What is really happening is that she is stepping onto a threshold. These thresholds cross the layers of the world. It allows her to detect and communicate with the shades of the mortal dead.”
“And tell them to sleep.”
“Yes. Because of her ability, there is another entity who speaks through her. She acts on his behalf, whether she is aware of it or not.”
“Who?”
He glanced at Karigan who slept peacefully and innocently beside him. When he turned his gaze back to Estral, he looked uncertain about what to say. “It is said among the Eletians that a couple years ago, by working on this entity’s behalf, she rescued the living world from a great calamity.”
“And the entity is?” Estral demanded in exasperation.
“Your god of death.”
GHOSTS
“You have the command of them,” the ghostly Rider said. “You must not let them into you.”
She had walked out of a smoky mist into the Painted Turtle, only the inn was larger and built at exaggerated angles. An enormous butter cream pie almost covered the whole tabletop. The edges of the common room fell into shadows through the murk of smoke. The Rider joined her at the table. He wore ancient garb, and carried with him a bow and quiver of arrows. The horn of the captain was slung over his shoulder.
“You cannot let them control you,” the Rider said, his eyes the deep wells of the heavens. “You must control them. There will be those of a dark nature who will try to trick you, to take advantage, they who have no wish to be contained or subjugated.”
“How do I do that?” she asked.
“You can will it, just as you will yourself to fade out when you use your ability. Remember also, the gods are capricious. Westrion will use you, but he will not always help you. He will only help you if there is some advantage to himself.”
It all made sense in the way only a dream would, she thought.
The Rider stood. “It is time I left.”
“Wait,” she said, “what is your name?”
He smiled. “We have met before.” He turned and his winged horse brooch flashed gold as he disappeared into the smoke.
Another man stepped out of shadow and gazed down at her. She knew him immediately.
“Cade!” she tried to rise so she could fling her arms around him, but she could not leave her chair. She was dead weight.
He did not look right. His eyes were burning coals of orange. His skin was slashed and scorched. Blood oozed from open wounds.