She thought he had finally understood that for the time being, she served as a Green Rider, a king’s messenger, and it left no room in her life for a role as a merchant. And now he was trying to marry her off? Not in so many words, of course. The pretense was that she was to welcome Braymer Coyle on his first excursion to Sacor City. This was reinforced by a polite request from Braymer’s father that she show his son the city, and the gift that had accompanied it—a delicate silver necklace that matched the silver threads of her new dress.
She snorted. Their fathers had been in cahoots.
Well, she would take Mara’s advice and just relax and enjoy the change of pace. A quiet change of pace, she decided. No uniform, no sword, no enemies.
And Mara was right: she had been sad.
Her progress was hampered by a gaggle of young noblewomen clogging the corridor. With the announcement of King Zachary’s betrothal to Lady Estora, Coutre relations had descended upon the castle from all directions and were still coming, undoubtedly emptying the whole of Coutre Province.
The women were laughing and in high spirits. Karigan marveled at how the announcement of a wedding could turn people into ninnies. The fact that it was the king’s wedding didn’t help matters—the foolishness extended across the entire country.
Moving at the core of the finery and laughter was one who outshone them all, with her sweep of golden hair and statuesque figure. Lady Estora Coutre did not come across as silly or foolish—far from it. Rather she was serene, and while others giggled, she gave only a distant smile. It was almost as if she moved in a different world than they did.
Lady Estora was reputed to be the greatest beauty of the lands, and many anxious suitors had come and gone, had been turned away by her father who had settled for nothing less than the high king as the bridegroom for his firstborn daughter.
At that moment, Estora turned, as if sensing Karigan’s gaze, and caught her eyes. Karigan clutched her dress to her chest and sucked in a breath.
“Karigan?” Estora said.
Some of the gaggle paused to see whom she addressed.
Karigan exhaled, turned on her heel, and struck off in the opposite direction.
“How rude,” one of the noblewomen loudly commented. “What do you want with a commoner of that ilk anyway?”
Karigan never heard Estora’s reply. They had been friends, but ever since the betrothal announcement, Karigan had been unable to speak with her, or even to face her.
She took a long, circuitous route through the servants’ quarter of the castle, bypassing cooks and laundresses and runners. Here she felt comfortable and inconspicuous among her own kind. There was no chance she would run into Estora again, and there was especially no chance of encountering King Zachary.
She’d not gone before King Zachary since…that night. The starry night he had expressed his love for her atop the castle roof. He had chosen to tell her his feelings even as the ink on the marriage contract with Lord Coutre was drying.
Why had she fallen for her monarch, one who was unobtainable for the likes of her? His timing had been abysmal, and even as she yearned to be held in his arms, she wished he had said nothing to her at all. Maybe then she could have gotten through this whole marriage ordeal without hurting so much. If he truly cared, he would have kept his feelings to himself.
It was next to impossible not to feel pain with all the reminders of the betrothal around the castle; all the talk she overheard about wedding plans, of the children Zachary and Estora would produce. Even Karigan’s fellow Riders were caught up in the excitement.
It drowned out more important matters. It wasn’t so long ago that the lands had been threatened by a presence in Blackveil Forest which had been no less than the shadow of Mornhavon the Black, an old and deadly enemy. Had everyone forgotten already, amid all the wedding foolishness, that sometime in the future he would be back, and angry in the extreme?
She was grinding her teeth by the time she reached the lower sections of the castle. It didn’t help that Alton, whom she considered a dear friend, had decided he hated her for some reason she couldn’t fathom. She would never understand men. They were incomprehensible, and she did not hold out much hope for Braymer Coyle.
Karigan sighed as she stepped into the Rider wing. It was part of a more ancient section of the castle, and here the stonework was rougher, the walls closer, and the arched ceiling lower. Long abandoned by the Green Riders, and by everyone else for that matter, it had cleaned up nicely, but it would never replace the old barracks that had housed the king’s messengers for two hundred years before fire demolished it.
Someone had seen to hanging bright tapestries along the corridor walls. She would have liked to enlarge the arrow slits that served as windows in each of the tiny chambers, but was unable to for reasons of defense. Overall, despite the improvements that had been made, it was still a dark, gloomy place, but she had to admit that it was getting better. Especially with all the life the new Riders brought to it.
Even now, Ty Newland stood with arms folded, overseeing Fergal Duff, a new Rider, and Yates Cardell, a not-so-new Rider, move an awkward and rather heavy wardrobe down the corridor. The two grunted with effort and sweated profusely, their rolled-up sleeves revealing tautly corded muscles. Ty in contrast, looked as cool and impeccable as usual. The others called him “Rider Perfect” behind his back, but Karigan suspected that if he knew, he’d be rather pleased.
“Good afternoon, Karigan,” Ty said.
“Hello.”
Fergal, upon seeing her, straightened, which shifted the load of the wardrobe onto Yates, who issued a garbled expletive.
“Hello, Rider G’ladheon,” Fergal said, oblivious to Yates’ strain.
He was maybe all of fifteen years old, and full of the bright innocence of one who had not been a Green Rider long. It amazed her how eager the novice Riders were about their new lives and the prospect of meeting danger in the course of their work. As part of their training, they heard about the legends and history of the king’s messengers—the little that was known, anyway. Quickly becoming part of the recent history were accounts of Karigan’s own exploits. She had caught more than one wide-eyed gaze cast in her direction from among the new Riders. Several even paused in their own weapons practice to watch her train with the fearsome Arms Master Drent.
Another male not high on Karigan’s happy list. He had insisted on continuing to train her, and unfortunately, Captain Mapstone agreed.
“Fergal!” Yates cried in a strangled tone. “Pay attention!”
“Yes, sir.” The young Rider again took on more of the weight of the wardrobe.
“Sir?” Karigan asked Ty.
“The young are impressionable, and at the moment, Fergal’s deference is keeping Yates cooperative.”
Karigan shook her head and ducked into her chamber. It just wasn’t the same as her old room at the barracks that had overlooked the green of pasture and grazing messenger horses, but it was quiet.
“Ow!” Yates howled. “That was, and I put the emphasis on was, my toe!”
Mostly quiet, she amended. She shut the door and hung her dress in the dark depths of her own monstrous wardrobe. Garth had found this, and other royal castoffs with which to furnish the new Rider wing, in a storage room somewhere in the castle.
The rich blue and tailoring of her dress looked odd hanging among all the green of her uniforms, like something from another place, another world. And she supposed it was. Her world was now that of the Green Riders, not that of a merchant, and certainly not that of a young woman caught up in more ordinary pursuits, such as attracting a profitable marriage alliance.
The world of the Green Riders was a dangerous one. Riders were not particularly long lived, and Karigan had come close to losing her own life more than once. She had lost count of how many Riders died violent deaths since she had been called. Her own brooch once belonged to a Rider she found impaled with two black arrows and dying in the road.
If she su
rvived her tenure as a Rider, she knew that other world would be out there waiting for her, and that she’d have incredible tales to tell her grandchildren.
The bell down in the city rang out four hour, and she sat on the edge of her narrow bed, gazing into the open wardrobe. The silvery threads of her dress did not sparkle as brightly as the gold threads of the winged horse insignia on the sleeves of her uniform.
Not one to seek sanctuary, Karigan found it now in the dim light that filtered into her room through her narrow window. Here she heard no words about weddings, nor did she have to look upon preparations. No one was trying to kill her at the moment, and she hadn’t even seen the hint of a ghost in a couple months. More important, there was no sign of trouble at the wall. So far. Perhaps her days of danger were over, and some future Rider would deal with Mornhavon the Black. Maybe Alton would fix the wall before Mornhavon returned.
A sort of contentment blanketed her, and she fell asleep, dreaming of walking through a garden in a deep green velvet dress, which sparkled in the sunshine with threads of golden fire.
GRYPHON STREET
“Look at you,” Tegan said in a hushed voice. “Beautiful!”
She tilted the mirror so Karigan could get a better glimpse of herself, but it was too small for her to see a full view. She decided she’d just have to take Tegan’s word for it that she wasn’t about to embarrass herself.
Karigan had needed a great deal of help getting ready—this was not the simple attire of her girlhood, but a complicated system of undergarments, padding, layers of skirts, and the laces necessary to hold it all together. The worst part was the dratted whalebone corset Tegan had cinched tight, squishing all of Karigan’s innards and making the scar tissue of a not-so-old stab wound throb. It plumped up her unremarkable bosom into something…miraculous. Fortunately the seamstress in town had altered the bodice, with its swooping neckline, to perfection. A slight error in measurement would have been far too revealing.
What was her father thinking by sending her a dress like this? Well, obviously he wanted to impress Braymer Coyle with her, um, feminine wiles. Or maybe, just maybe, he didn’t see her as a little girl anymore.
Encased in the dress and its various trappings, Karigan found she could not breathe or bend, and that the layers of skirts felt like they weighed a hundred pounds. Her shoes, comprised of silk brocade dyed to match the dress with narrow wooden soles, were clasped to her feet with silver buckles. The contraptions produced dainty-looking feet but pinched her toes and made walking a treacherous endeavor. She glanced with longing at her supple leather riding boots standing at attention next to her wardrobe and hoped she’d survive the day without breaking any bones.
As the daughter of a merchant, she had always worn all the finest, latest fashions, but throughout her childhood she had admired the sophisticated women attired in their elegant dresses as they paraded about Corsa’s most exclusive shopping district and attended socials. At the time, she could hardly wait to be of an age to join them, and she had fantasized about dresses just like the one that now held her captive. What had she been thinking?
“I feel like a puffy blue blob,” Karigan said, stroking the patterned velvet with a gloved hand. Even her head felt funny with her hair piled up on it and held in place with an armory of pins, combs, and ribbons. She figured the hardware equaled the weight of her saber.
“The blue is wonderful.” Tegan’s eyes feasted on Karigan’s dress. She came from a clan of dyers and knew quality when she saw it. It was even possible the dye had come from her clan. “Oh, we must not forget your necklace,” she said. She opened the ornate porcelain box it came in and drew out the silver chain with a crescent moon pendant hanging from it.
Karigan was surprised a Rhovan would choose the symbol of the god most Sacoridians worshipped, Aeryc, as a gift. Rhovans preferred to worship the goddess of the sun, Aeryon. Perhaps Braymer’s father thought she was of a religious disposition and that this would please her. Or maybe the Coyles were religious and her father had exaggerated some facts about Clan G’ladheon to impress them. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least if he had.
Tegan clasped the chain around Karigan’s neck. The only other piece of “jewelry” she wore was her Rider brooch. It had been something of a challenge to figure out where to pin it. Ordinarily it was attached to her uniform above her heart, but presently there was not enough cloth in that region to hold it, so she had clasped it close to her shoulder. It was an awkward placement, but by the brooch’s special nature, its true form would remain invisible to everyone except other Riders.
Tegan helped wrap a matching shawl around Karigan’s shoulders and handed her a little drawstring purse. She then made Karigan turn all the way around.
Tegan clapped her hands together. “You are…” she paused, as if words failed her. “You are utterly transformed. You…you outshine even Lady Estora.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Tegan.”
“Truly, you are stunning, my dear. A noble lady.”
“Oh, my.” Karigan smiled faintly, knowing how her father would react to that comment. Stevic G’ladheon was not fond of aristocrats.
“It’s getting late,” Tegan said. “You should probably head for the castle entrance.”
Karigan grimaced. “I’m not sure I can move.” The walk to the castle entrance suddenly seemed daunting though normally she wouldn’t have thought twice about it. She sucked in a breath and wobbled out into the corridor.
Everything in the corridor stopped. Riders who had been chatting fell silent. Others striding by halted. Anyone going about their business came to a standstill and gawked. Particularly the males.
Tegan squeezed through the doorway around Karigan’s skirts. “It’s my pleasure to introduce Her Ridership, Lady Karigan.”
The Riders hooted and clapped, some of the females oohing and aahing over the dress. Karigan, taken aback, did not know what to say or do besides blush profusely.
Yates pushed his way forward and bowed with a mischievous grin, then offered her his arm. “Might I have the honor of escorting Her Ridership to the castle entrance?”
Ordinarily Yates might receive a sarcastic retort for such an offer, but this time Karigan was actually relieved, and she took his proffered arm. The challenge of walking in the blasted shoes would be easier now that she had someone to lean on.
How does Estora manage this every day? Actually, this was beyond an everyday dressing affair for most anyone, even Estora, who could make rags look elegant.
Yates was the perfect gentleman as he escorted her through the castle corridors. There were many rumors about Yates and his exploits with women, and while their veracity was uncertain, she was sure having half the castle population observe them together would send tongues wagging, something that would not displease Yates in the least.
During the seemingly endless journey to the castle entrance, men—soldiers and courtiers alike—bowed out of her way. She felt their lingering looks on her long after she had passed them by, and warmth blossomed in her cheeks. The glances she received from women were more critical and appraising. Some of these people had seen her a hundred times before as she went about her regular duties, but now they seemed not to recognize her. Maybe it was because when uniformed, she was just another servant, insignificant and common and easily overlooked. She bit her bottom lip in discomfort, suddenly feeling like she was trying to masquerade as someone she wasn’t.
As it turned out, there was a goodly number of courtiers dressed in their finest and glittering with precious gems heading in the same direction.
“There’s a garden party being held down in the noble quarter today, in honor of King Zachary and Lady Estora’s betrothal,” Yates explained.
Just what she needed to hear.
They wove through the ever thickening crowd of nobles to reach the entrance, some of whom seemed to have drenched themselves in heavy perfumes. Karigan gasped on the stench, expelling what little air she could get into her lungs, which were
crushed by the hellacious corset.
Finally they broke free and walked out onto the front steps of the main castle entrance, into the fresh air. Karigan blinked in the sunshine, praising the gods it wasn’t raining. She didn’t think the velvet or her ridiculous shoes would fare well in wet conditions. It was a fine, mellow autumn day, neither too hot nor too cold. Another blessing.
Lined up along the drive were numerous shining carriages with pairs of matching horses, all their harness leathers and brasses gleaming. Grooms and drivers stood ready to aid their noble passengers into their carriages.
“Uh oh,” Karigan said.
“What’s wrong?” Yates asked.
“I don’t know which belongs to Braymer. I don’t even know what Braymer looks like.”
Then a stylish black carriage pulled by matching black horses bypassed the others. It bore a small but obvious sun banner of Rhovanny. The passengers were two finely dressed gentlemen.
“Could that be him?” Yates asked, pointing out the carriage.
Karigan shrugged. “It could be some Rhovan noble come to join the festivities.”
“But everyone’s heading out, not in.”
“True.”
The two gentlemen disembarked from the carriage, one older, one younger, and both appearing to be at a loss as they gazed upon the gathering of folk at the entrance. Just as Karigan had no idea of what Braymer looked like, he had no way of knowing what she looked like.
“I think that must be him,” she told Yates, indicating the younger of the two. She started forward, but Yates’ hand on her arm forestalled her.
“Allow me,” he said.
Before she could say otherwise, he hopped down the steps to the drive and hailed the two gentlemen. Even from this distance, she could see Yates looking the younger of the two up and down, assessing him as a protective older brother might. Karigan had to suppress a laugh.
The High King's Tomb Page 3
