It had been hard enough, she thought, to see Ty riding onto the castle grounds on Ereal’s Crane. She had known instantly what it meant. And then to hear of Bard, too . . .
She tried to shudder away the dark thoughts, but they clung to her like her very own shadow. It was a shadow that grew darker and heavier with the passing of each Rider under her command, and she wondered if it had been the same for every other captain that had preceded her.
Successions of Green Foot runners brought news of the delegation’s progress. The bulk of it was slowed down by carts carrying the wounded, but Major Everson and Captain Ansible rode ahead with an escort. And, oh yes, the runner told Laren, the Green Rider was with them, too.
At that, Laren took heart and loosed a sigh of relief, much more loudly than intended, and Colin glanced sharply at her. She didn’t care. All her Riders were now accounted for. Karigan had come home.
Not long after the ringing of nine hour, Neff the herald hurried down the runner to inform them that they had at last arrived.
The three entered slowly, for Captain Ansible leaned heavily on a crutch that looked to be fashioned from a stout tree branch. Major Everson and Karigan kept pace with him out of deference. Ansible looked to have aged a hundred years—his skin had gone gray from sickness, and his chin and now-gaunt cheeks were covered by silvery beard bristles. His uniform, such as it was, hung from his shoulders. It was quite a change from the impeccable officer she knew him to be.
To Ansible’s right walked Major Everson, who looked sharp and well fed as only an officer of the light horse could, all shiny buttons and high polished boots. Upon Ty’s return, the king had ordered the cavalry to intercept, aid, and protect the survivors of the delegation. Everson was a grotesque contrast to his haunted companions, beaming from behind an ostentatious mustache as though he were entirely responsible for the deliverance of the delegation.
Karigan walked at Ansible’s left. She wore her hair tightly bound back which made the hollows of her cheeks stand out all the more. Her swordbelt slipped down her hips and she hastily snatched it back up. Every movement of her body suggested exhaustion and she walked with a footsore gait. Her boots, Laren noted, looked worn as if she had done more walking than riding. What of Condor?
Karigan’s entrance held faint resemblance to one she had made a year or so ago. Laren well-remembered that whole affair; she could still hear Neff’s voice ringing through the throne room as he announced Karigan’s name—and title: “Karigan G’ladheon, sub-chief of Clan G’ladheon!”
Zachary and Laren had exchanged surprised glances, surprised because they thought by this time never to see her here again.
Karigan had been accompanied by an entourage of a cargo master and guards, a secretary, and numerous servants; an entourage large enough to rival any noble’s. Zachary stood—unconsciously, Laren had thought—as Karigan glided down the runner, the sun that slanted through the tall windows shining on long brown hair, worn loose across her shoulders. She was draped in elegant silks of purple and blue, the clan colors.
When finally she had come before the throne, she put her hand to her heart and bowed. Her entourage was two seconds behind in emulating her.
What followed was an unbelievable display of wares—servants bringing before Laren and Zachary bolts of high quality wools dyed a perfect forest green, five different grades of leather, from supple to hard, gold silk and thread for formal uniforms, furs to line winter greatcoats, and the finest linens Laren had ever seen. Servants presented hogsheads filled with buttons and buckles, and samples of silver and iron.
Stevic G’ladheon was following up on his agreement to supply the Green Riders, but previous shipments had gone straight to the quartermaster without much ado, and none had been of this magnitude. It made Laren wonder what lay behind this display. Had Karigan come to flaunt her status as sub-chief and her defiance of the Rider call? If so, such arrogance was not like the Karigan she remembered.
Laren glanced at Zachary and had to do a double take. He looked entranced, not so much by the wares brought before him, but by Karigan, who supervised her servants with gentle authority, using but a nod or a gesture of her hand to direct them. She held herself well, aristocrati cally, a description she would not have appreciated. She had matured a good deal since last they had seen her. Zachary’s expression was inscrutable.
When the display of wares finally ceased, Karigan had said, “Clan G’ladheon makes one final offering.” She turned to the cargo master and started pulling rings off her fingers. “Sevano, these are my official seals and clan rings. Please see that they return home safely.”
The old man’s eyes grew large. “What are ye doing, lass? Those are important—”
She did not stop but removed a medallion from around her neck. “I do not need this either.”
Laren thought the old man was going to faint. “Your authority from the guild as—as sub-chief. What are ye doing?”
Karigan ignored his question and turned to her secretary, who blanched. “Robert, I will leave all receipts, ledgers, and written authorities in your care.”
Addressing all her people she said, “This decision was made over a month ago.” She removed her cloak and handed it to a servant. When she faced Laren and the king again, Laren saw not only the glitter of tears in her eyes, but pinned to her blouse, the gold winged horse brooch which had lain concealed beneath her cloak.
This all had been a carefully executed statement after all, Laren thought. Not a flaunting of what Karigan had become, but a demonstration of what she was giving up.
Karigan then fell to her knee before Zachary, her deep blue skirts pooling on the floor around her. She bowed her head. “I offer my service to the king as a Green Rider.”
Laren’s heart sang with gladness and she saw a flash of triumph in Zachary’s eyes. He stepped down the dais, took her hand, and raised her to her feet. “I accept.”
In Karigan’s face, she saw not only resignation, but relief. Relief of a deed finally done.
After Karigan’s bewildered entourage had left, and before the Chief Rider could come collect Karigan to get her outfitted and situated at Rider barracks, Karigan had handed Laren an envelope with the G’ladheon seal on it.
“From my father,” Karigan said.
When Laren unsealed it much later, she found the message simple and direct: Take care of her.
Laren was certain, as she looked upon Karigan now, almost an entire year later, that Stevic G’ladheon would be much displeased with her. As the trio neared, she caught more details—the pink healing cut across Karigan’s cheekbone, and what might be mudstains on her shortcoat . . . or dried bloodstains. Was the blood Karigan’s, or that of the enemy? She grimaced, imagining Stevic G’ladheon’s ire.
Yet she could not coddle Karigan no matter her father’s wishes. It was now Karigan’s duty to serve, just as the other Riders must serve, even if it meant facing untold dangers. Even death.
Everson bent to his knee before the king with a flourish. Ansible managed a nod of his head. Karigan’s own obeisance looked so exhausted as to be painful.
“Welcome home, friends,” Zachary said. He had removed his king’s mask, Laren noted, not concealing his concern and genuine joy at their return.
“Glad to be out of that tangle of woods,” Everson said, his thumbs hooked in his belt. “Give me a good, clear field for a direct charge at full gallop any day.”
Laren fought the urge to wind the curlicues of his mustache around her fingers and yank. Her own Riders never, or at least hardly ever, complained about hard travel through Sacoridia’s thick forestlands. The light horse was just a bit too pampered to Laren’s mind, but it was, after all, the territory of the privileged. Few commoners filled its ranks; it consisted mostly of the offspring of nobles with no land to inherit. They sought to make their name in the military, and gravitated to the elite light horse. It took a special appointment by an important sponsor to get in, something far easier for a noble to obtain than
a commoner.
Many years ago, during the reign of the Sealenders, the captain of the Green Riders answered to superiors in the light horse, but that had ended with King Smidhe’s reign, for which Laren was grateful. The king had reverted the Riders to an independent force, answerable only to him and his successors, just as the First Rider had originally intended when she founded the messenger service.
Rider tradition rejected the chain of command above and beyond the authority of captain—except for the king, of course, who was their ultimate authority—and they possessed more independence than members of the other branches of the military. Considering the covert nature of some of the work Zachary required of his messengers, it was a good thing.
“Please sit,” Zachary said. “I know how weary you must be from your travels.” He clapped and servants moved the table and chairs before the throne. Wine was poured and meat brought forth. Even Laren got to sit finally, but her appetite was considerably diminished by the appearance of Ansible and Karigan.
Karigan nibbled a little at her food, but the effort seemed too much for her. Everson speared a slab of roast for himself and ate with relish. Between mouthfuls, he spoke of how he and his troops intercepted the delegation several miles beyond the North Road.
“As sorry a group as you could expect,” he said. “Two hundred diminished to forty-three. Half or more injured, and half again so injured they could not walk or ride. Ten more perished with the traveling. I find it remarkable they got so far on their own.
“We set up camp so our menders could look to the wounded. Rider G’ladheon here showed me and some scouts to the clearing where the battle had been fought.” Everson shook his head. “Terrible. Our folk had been placed in a mass grave, but the area was alive with carrion birds feasting on groundmites and horses. Other beasts had been at them, too, and these snarled from the shadows of the forest at our intrusion.”
Karigan pushed her food away, eyes downcast as Everson described the scene. It was the most unanimated Laren had ever seen her, as if she weren’t even there at all. Little wonder after what she’d been through, and now Everson was bringing it all back to life as he described the scene of death.
“Eletians aided us with our dead,” Captain Ansible said, speaking up for the first time. “They helped us with the burying, among other things in the aftermath of the battle. If not for their medicines, I would have lost my leg at the very least, and probably my life from wound fever. We’d have lost even more people, too, if not for their aid.”
“I would like to hear more about the Eletians,” Zachary said, “but perhaps we should start with the beginning.”
“I may not be the one to tell you of the beginning,” Ansible said, with a brief aside to Karigan. “You see, when the ’mites attacked, I was well asleep on my cot. It had been an evening like so many that had come before . . . ”
He went on to describe being awakened by shouts and the clatter of battle, and how he had quickly thrown himself into the fray, fighting for order among the lines, trying to draw his soldiers shoulder to shoulder around the clearing’s perimeter to defend themselves, with the nobles and servants within.
“It was working,” he said. “Our lines held tight. Where one defender fell, another took his place. I never did see who took mine when the ’mite blade caught me in the leg.” His hand went absently to his bandaged thigh and he shook his head. “That ’mite saved my life.”
Laren leaned forward, anxious for him to explain the curious statement. The captain’s eyes took on a faraway look, and then he shuddered.
“Many pardons,” he murmured. “I was, at the time, in great pain and stunned. But even now, I have a difficult time believing it all.”
“Take your time,” Zachary said.
Ansible inclined his head in thanks, and took a long draught from a cup of wine before him. He licked his lips and began again.
“I had fallen from the line, practically beneath the feet of the ’mites. My whole body was pressed to the ground. I felt it tremble—the ground trembled with thunder, and when I looked up, it was . . . it was like all the lightning of the heavens was contained in that clearing. I can still feel the heat of it . . . the hairs raising on my arms, the sensation of that loosed power crawling across my skin.” He shook his head. “I saw it sluice right through my soldiers—through anyone in its way. Everyone in the clearing. Magic, the Eletians said it was. Magical wards erupting.” He made the sign of the crescent moon with his fingers. “And then . . . and then . . .”
“A wraith came through,” Karigan supplied. “Its emergence from the tomb set off the wards.”
Everyone looked at her, astonished to hear her voice as though she were a wraith herself.
“I saw nothing,” Ansible said. “Just felt as though I wanted to hide myself under the nearest rock.”
Ty had said something very like this, of a terrible something that had fought its way through the dying wards and emerged from the clearing. He had glimpsed only a shadow before it disappeared.
Captain Ansible would say nothing more of the wraith, but he went on to speak of the Eletians appearing in their “moon armor,” as he called it, and of their aid.
“They were led by a fellow named Telagioth. Tall he was, with eyes of blue that . . .” He shook his head as words failed him. “An odd folk in any case. I have never seen their like. This Telagioth, he was intent to speak to Rider G’ladheon here, but how he knew of her, I am not certain.”
Laren watched as the king’s gaze swung over to Karigan and rested there, a thoughtful expression on his face. Karigan stared into her cup of tea as though sunk deeply into her own world. She clenched the porcelain teacup so hard Laren feared she would crush it.
“Rider G’ladheon,” the king said, his voice soft, “per haps you could tell us your version of events.”
Karigan looked up, blinking. For an odd moment, Laren swore she saw a figure standing just beyond her, a shimmer like a wave of heat. She blinked her eyes to clear them, but it was still there—a tall figure, but without definition. It hovered there as if waiting or listening. Listening?
This time Laren rubbed at her eyes, and when she looked again, the figure was gone.
I haven’t had enough to eat, she thought. I’m seeing things.
True, her ability told her, without her requesting feedback. She wondered which was true—that she hadn’t had enough to eat, or that she was seeing things.
Both, she decided.
KARIGAN SPEAKS
I could not sleep,” Karigan began, “so I went to the pickets to check on Condor.” As Karigan spoke, Laren found herself drawn into the inky black of the forest night and the hush of the slumbering encampment, the embers of distant campfires glowing orange. Even as Karigan described it, she felt the jolt of discovering the soldier impaled in the chest by a groundmite arrow. Details about the actual battle were few. It was as if Karigan did not wish to relive the fighting, and so spoke very little of it.
“I found myself on the outskirts of the battle and witnessed the eruption of the wards just as Captain Ansible described.” Karigan spoke carefully, sitting rigidly. She set her teacup aside. “I saw the wraith pass through the wardings. Moments later, it approached me through the woods.”
This Ty had not told Laren. Perhaps in the aftermath of battle, and due to Ty’s quick departure, there had been no opportunity for him to learn of it.
“The wraith—it knew my name,” Karigan said.
The room grew ominously quiet. Everyone was intent on Karigan. Even the fresco painted figures on the ceiling, the likenesses of Zachary’s ancestors, seemed to listen.
“Rather,” Karigan corrected herself in reflection, “it called me Galadheon, as did the Eletians.”
Disturbed, Zachary stood. Everyone rose with him as protocol demanded, Ansible struggling. “No,” the king said, “please remain seated.” He rounded the table and placed one hand on Ansible’s shoulder and the other on Karigan’s, pressing them back into their
chairs. Laren sank into her own. “Please continue,” he told Karigan.
Karigan seemed to struggle with something before she spoke. Finally she said, “The wraith also called me ‘Betrayer.’ ”
Everyone remained silent, Zachary standing behind Karigan and slightly to her left. It brought back to mind the—the whatever Laren had seen before. Maybe it had been a film in her eye.
Colin Dovekey broke the silence. “How in the name of five hells would this creature know you, Rider? And are you certain it spoke this word to you? Battle can disorient one’s mind.”
“Yes, sir, I am certain the wraith called me ‘Betrayer.’ I have no idea as to why, or how it might know me. I realize how strange this must sound . . . It has been strange for me. It was a terrible time, a nightmare. I—” and she struggled for words again. “I have thought about this long and hard, but still I have no answers.”
Zachary started pacing, head bowed in thought. “The name . . . G’ladheon is no doubt a contraction from an older name. Perhaps an error in census records caused the change, and it was adopted as the true name of the line. Or maybe it changed as things do in the course of generations passing. No doubt this wraith has abilities—magical knowledges beyond our ken. We are dealing with a very different kind of threat. An unknown threat.”
The feeble glow of the lamps seemed unable to fend off the weight of night. The windows were coated with black, and darkness had settled into the throne room’s corners and rafters.
“How did you escape this wraith?” Colin asked Karigan.
“I did not escape it. The Eletians came. This seemed to frighten it off, though I’m not sure ‘frighten’ is the appropriate term.” She paused, caught in some memory, her fingers touching the fading wound on her cheek. Then she went on to describe her meeting with Telagioth and how he led her beneath the cairn and into the tomb.
Zachary halted his pacing, a spasm of anger fluttering across his features. “To what purpose? Why would he take you into that creature’s tomb? That was an unnecessary risk. Who knows what else could have been down there?”
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