Karigan felt guilty she had been avoiding Estora, but seeing her as King Zachary’s wife was just so very difficult. No matter how hard she tried to get past it all, the pain was ever-present. But now, Estora had requested to see her, and she had no real excuse not to. She did consider riding away somewhere to avoid everyone—the queen, Enver, her family—but she’d pretty much made herself give up running away. The adult thing was to face her challenges. Besides, a glance outside revealed more winter weather was on the way, which would make riding neither pleasant nor easy.
She continued into the royal section of the castle in the west wing, wondering why she had to face so many challenges.
The west wing was quiet, though guards and Weapons were present, and a couple of servants hurried along the main corridor, their footfalls silent on deep carpet. The Weapon Rory stood at the door of the queen’s rooms.
“Ah, Sir Karigan,” he said.
“Hello, Rory, I was told the queen wished to see me.”
“She does. Are you, or have you been ill?”
“What?”
“Master Vanlynn does not want anyone who is sick to pass through this door.”
Karigan understood. Winter, with everyone cooped up together, could be a time when illness spread readily. A few waves of colds and fever had already passed through both the castle and city populations. Karigan was one of the few who’d made it through relatively unscathed.
“I am not sick,” she said, though she realized it would be an excellent excuse to avoid Estora. No running away, she reminded herself. “Just crotchety, apparently.”
“Very well,” Rory said, and he opened the door. “Come with me.”
Karigan followed behind him into the queen’s domain. She had never been in the royal apartments before, and found Estora’s, as she walked through the entry, was as well appointed as one would expect, with hangings and coastal landscape paintings from Coutre Province on the walls.
Rory led her to a spacious sitting room, where Estora rested, propped on a sofa before the fire. She was absorbed in a book, lamplight glinting on her golden hair. Bundled beneath a blanket as she was, it was not obvious she was with child. Or, rather, children.
Being in Estora’s presence often aroused a sense of inadequacy in Karigan, for Estora embodied graceful femininity and perfection. She wore no uniform nor had she acquired calloused hands from rough work. Her porcelain complexion was unmarred by scars, and a leather patch did not cover one of her long-lashed eyes. Not that Karigan would trade places with her, and not that she wasn’t proud of her uniform and work, but Estora’s simple existence had the power to show Karigan, in stark contrast, what she was not and never would be.
“My lady,” Rory said, “Sir Karigan.”
Estora looked up from her book. “Karigan!”
Karigan bowed. “You wished to see me, my lady?”
“Yes, yes. Please come sit with me, and don’t be so terribly formal. This is not an official visit. I simply have seen so little of you since your return, and it is not as if I’ve been allowed to come to you. Master Vanlynn insists I repose in my rooms for the duration.”
Karigan took an armchair beside the fire.
“Have you need of anything before I return to my post, my lady?” Rory asked.
“No, thank you, Rory.” He nodded and retreated from the room. “I have been so terribly bored,” Estora continued. “My ladies come to provide me with companionship, to do needlework and gossip, but it is so inane. I rarely get a chance for intelligent conversation, and Zachary is always so busy. But he did bring me this volume of poetry.” She lifted the book so Karigan could see the blue-dyed leather cover. “Have you read the work of Lady Amalya Whitewren?”
“Lady Amalya Whitewren?” Karigan asked. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of her.” But there was a niggling something about the name. Might she have heard of her and just forgotten?
“Oh, well, she is creating quite a sensation on Gryphon Street, as I hear it, and no wonder for she is a divine poet.” Estora was so enthusiastic about Lady Amalya Whitewren that she began reading some passages from the book. It was romantic poetry in the form of sonnets.
Karigan tried to conceal a yawn. Besides being short of sleep, she did not share Estora’s enthusiasm for poetry. She liked a good yarn instead, a story she could follow with colorful characters and adventures, although possibly, after so many adventures of her own, she’d become less inclined to seek out such tales. As Estora read on, the warmth of the fire and the crackle of flames lulled her. Her surroundings grew hazy and she drifted.
“Who was Lady Amalya Whitewren?” Cade asked. His voice was suspicious, demanding. He was testing her, and she must prove she was who she said she was, a Green Rider from the past. His expression remained stern as he awaited her answer, his posture stiff. She saw him clearly, his dark hair and the open collar of his shirt. His eyes bored into her.
“I have no idea,” Karigan replied.
Cade’s brows narrowed, and there was a quirk to his lips. He’d poked a hole in her story. “She was only one of the most popular poets of your time.”
Karigan could only shrug, but then another voice entered her dream, or was it memory?
“Cade,” the professor said, “if I am not mistaken, Lady Amalya came into prominence after Karigan G’ladheon left for Blackveil.”
Cade conceded this could be true, but he was eager to continue his questioning of her, his expression no longer stern, but curious, his eyes lively.