Blackveil: Book Four of Green Rider

by Kristen Britain

  Lady Estora’s eyes lit up and she delved into yet more reminisences about blueberries and this Seamount. The two carried on at length and Amberhill was caught in a yawn.

  Lady Estora laughed. “Our poor Lord Amberhill. We’re boring him with our memories.”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “It’s just that I’ve been at work all day arranging for the packing up of my house in the city.” He’d miss his “little” rental in the noble quarter, but it made no sense to maintain it when he’d be away for an uncertain length of time doing who knew what. In the meantime, he’d directed his man-of-business to seek a suitable house for purchase. A larger, more prominent house now that he could afford it. It was all about appearances, after all.

  A servant came by and Amberhill placed his empty teacup on a tray. Lady Estora made a sharp inhalation.

  “My lady?” Amberhill asked, startled.

  “Your ring,” she said. “It caught in the light. May I see it more closely?”

  “Of course,” Amberhill replied, silently cursing the flashiness of the thing. Considering how he acquired the piece, and how it seemed to be attuned to certain powers, he did not want to be questioned about it. He supposed he didn’t have to wear it, but he couldn’t help but wear it. He did not think it safe to just leave it lying about on his dressing table, and he did not trust leaving it in his pocket. What if it fell through a hole?

  Now that he’d been directly questioned about the ring, however, he could not hide it, so he held out his hand for Lady Estora and his cousin to examine.

  “It is beautiful,” Lady Estora said. “Beautiful and old, if I am not mistaken. Has it come to you through your family?”

  “No. I acquired it from a dealer of antiquities. I could not resist it when I saw it.” The lie slipped easily from his tongue.

  “I can see why,” Zachary said. “The craftsmanship is masterful, and the ruby very clear and fiery.”

  “Yes,” Amberhill murmured, not comfortable with their scrutiny. He withdrew his hand and they sat back in their chairs.

  “Many centuries ago,” Lady Estora said, “in the days before the Long War, there were mighty sea kings who ruled much of our coast and conquered many lands. It is said they were a brutal people in war, but generous to friends and family, and that they celebrated beauty and workmanship above all else. Their sigil was the dragon, or sea drake.”

  “In Hillander,” Zachary said, “remnants of their villages have been found nearly washing into the sea, and the dragon sigil was found upon the few artifacts that survived—shards of pottery, metalwork, and the like.”

  Amberhill had heard of the sea kings before in reference to his ring, from a pair of eccentric, elderly sisters. He’d been too busy managing his affairs since then to seek further historical reference to them, so it was astonishing to learn they’d had a presence in his home province of Hillander. Perhaps because his estate was inland, and he was not much of a scholar, he wasn’t surprised he knew nothing about them.

  “How very interesting,” he said, as if hearing about the sea kings for the first time.

  “I imagine we may have the blood of their people running through us,” Lady Estora said. “As for the kings themselves, it is said that during the Black Ages they boarded their ships with all their treasures and sailed east into the mist, never to return.”

  “Mysterious,” Amberhill said, and it was. Unlike the old sisters, neither Lady Estora nor Zachary mentioned anything about actual dragons or any powers that might emanate from his ring. Then again, those sisters had been a trifle uncanny themselves.

  “There are, of course, plenty of legends in Coutre about the sea kings,” Estora said. “Mostly told to terrify children into good behavior. It used to give me shivers imagining those ships coming back across the sea with their dragon figureheads and pennants, and ghostly sailors manning black sails and oars.”

  “I wonder,” Zachary mused, “what the Eletians could tell us of them. Many Eletians who live now also lived during that time. Not that you would ever receive straight answers from an Eletian.” His expression was, for lack of a better description, one of gloom.

  The fire in the hearth was dying down, the elderly chaperone asleep with her needlework on her lap, and the scones were mere crumbs. Even the two terriers had sprawled out, sound asleep. Amberhill guessed that an undue amount of time had elapsed.

  “I must be going,” Amberhill said, and Lady Estora’s expression fell with disappointment. “But not without wedding gifts first. For my cousin, a colt or filly of his choosing from the first breeding season at my estate.”

  “Xandis—” Zachary started to protest.

  Amberhill cut him off with a gesture. “It is entirely my pleasure and no hardship. Think of what fine promotion it will be for my stables to have Sacoridia’s king riding one of my foals. Which brings me to Lady Estora.” He smiled at her. “I’ve one of my stablehands bringing to Sacor City a yearling filly with a white coat, one of my Goss’ first offspring. She will make a fine hunter and pleasure horse. Your old mare, as I recall, met her demise at Teligmar.” That was a kind way of saying she’d been ridden to death.

  Lady Estora nodded, tears brimming in her eyes, and hands clasped together. “I have missed Falan very much. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome, but I am not finished.” He removed a velvet bag from an inside pocket of his frock coat and passed it to Lady Estora.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “Look and see.”

  She withdrew a delicate gold chain from which hung a pendant fixed with a shining golden gem like the orb of the sun. Gold was worked around it to create the sun’s curling rays. She placed one hand to her chest as though her breath were taken away. Zachary raised an eyebrow.

  “A gold sapphire,” Amberhill said. He’d thought it would complement her golden hair, and he was right.

  “It’s ... it’s too much,” Lady Estora said.

  “Nonsense. When I saw it, I knew it must be yours.” He did not tell her he first saw it in the bowels of a pirate’s corpse. His jeweler had grimaced when Amberhill gave it to him to clean, but the man did a marvelous job, and fixed the clasp on the chain as well. He also asked no questions.

  “Where did you find this piece?” Zachary asked. Did he sound a trifle suspicious? Or better yet, a little jealous?

  Amberhill half-smiled. “Same dealer as I got my ring. He’s a good eye for fine antiquities, and so do I.” He wondered, as he did over many of the pieces he’d recovered, to whom the necklace originally belonged. Was she as lovely and kind as Lady Estora? Or was she wicked and cruel? As he gazed at it now in the lady’s palm, it seemed to him it could have been made only for her.

  “Will you put it on me?” Lady Estora asked.

  “No, my lady,” Amberhill replied. “That’s my cousin’s duty.”

  Caught unaware, it was a moment before Zachary stood and bowed to the lady and took the necklace to clasp around her neck.

  Amberhill had chosen well. The chain sloped delicately around her neck, and the pendant dangled just above her cleavage. The facets of the sapphire sparkled and burned with flames of gold.

  “Ah,” he said. “You are Aeryon come to the Earth to walk among us lowly mortals.” With the radiance of the gem adding to her natural glow, he could not help but think the sun goddess was truly in the parlor with them. She certainly favored Lady Estora.

  “You overstate it,” she said with a laugh.

  “No, my lady,” Zachary said with an uncertain smile, “he does not. But I knew that even before the necklace.”

  His pronouncement was met with silence. Lady Estora was plainly stunned to hear the words, and Zachary looked stunned to have spoken them. Amberhill privately applauded his cousin. Funny what a nice piece of jewelry could inspire.

  “Now, I am afraid, I must take my leave.” He stood and bowed, and kissed Lady Estora’s hand. He admired the pendant close-up as his eyes roved over her breasts.

  “Are y
ou sure you must leave us—the city—so soon?” Lady Estora asked. “I am planning a ball, a masquerade ball, and we would love for you to attend.”

  “I hope to make my departure as soon as I may, though I will see what I can do about the masquerade. No promises, however.”

  There was nothing else to say, so the couple wished him a happy and prosperous voyage, and he wished them a happy and prosperous marriage. He had no idea of what lay in the east for him, he just knew he needed to go, and by the time he returned—if he returned—Zachary and Lady Estora would be well into their union together.

  In the meantime, he had a late night ahead of him.

  A GOOD TURN

  Though the Raven Mask was “dead,” Amberhill maintained his skills, roaming all quarters of the city in the dark of night, silently sinking into shadows.. He listened to rumors in the streets from those who gossiped about the betrothal of Zachary and Lady Estora, to those who expressed uneasiness about a gathering darkness in the world. He observed lovers strolling by, whispering words only lovers could whisper.

  Mostly what he heard in the night was ordinary folk grumbling petty complaints about the weather, the price of grain, and one another. Still, he preferred that to his dreams of the unceasing roll of waves, the sea calling to him, calling him till he ached.

  He took a deep breath as the throb built within him, and another until it eased. Cloaked and hooded in black, he stood in the shadow of a close. Few were out at this hour, mostly drunks and vagrants. Dim light filtered from the grubby windows of the Cock and Hen. Rumor had drawn him here to the lower city; rumor of a pair of unsavory characters who visited the most disreputable inns and taverns. There was a familiar ring to the details he heard about them.

  As he watched and waited, the clip-clop of hooves preceded a mule cart driven up the Winding Way by a man hunched over the reins in his fists. The cart wheels creaked and wobbled as though the whole contraption was about to fall apart. The mule looked no better, underfed and swaybacked. The man reined the mule to a halt in front of the Cock and Hen. When he set the brake, he painstakingly climbed down from the cart. His limbs shook and jerked seemingly without control.

  No sooner had he planted his feet on the ground than two toughs—not the two Amberhill had been awaiting, alas—appeared from around the inn’s corner. Among the rumors Amberhill heard, these two figured prominently, for they sought fights unbidden and robbed the weak. They’d probably been following the old man for some time, sizing up their prey. Considering the condition of mule and cart, it wouldn’t have been difficult for them to keep up.

  “Hey, old man,” one said, sauntering up to the cart. “What you got to give us?”

  “Go away,” the man said. “I’ve got nothing.”

  The second tough peered into the cart. “Not much back here,” he said. “But look at this bow.” He withdrew a longbow from the cart.

  “Leave that be!” the old man cried.

  “What else you got?” the first tough asked.

  “Nothing, I tell ye! Give me my bow.” He reached for it with a shaking hand, but the second tough held it just out of reach and laughed.

  Amberhill saw the glint of a knife as the first one drew it from his belt.

  “You got some coins, old man?” He waved the knife in the man’s face.

  Amberhill knew these thugs would think nothing of killing the man for no other reason than it amused them, which just would not do, so he swept out from the close, his cloak billowing behind him. He drew his rapier in a movement as natural as breathing.

  “Leave,” he said.

  “Who’s this?” one of the toughs asked, unimpressed.

  “I’ve told you to leave, but you do not listen.”

  The thug opened his mouth to speak, but before any words crossed his lips, Amberhill’s rapier flicked across the back of his hand and the knife clattered to the street. The thug cursed and held his bleeding hand close. Amberhill pivoted just in time to knock a knife from the other man’s hand. He held the tip of the rapier to the thug’s throat.

  “Return the bow to its owner.”

  “All right, all right. Just watch it with that sword.” He handed the bow to the old man.

  “Now leave,” Amberhill commanded. “If I catch you bothering this gentleman again, or anyone else, I shall be far less polite.”

  This time the two listened and ran off down the street. The old man wiped his brow with a trembling hand. He gripped the bow so tightly with the other his knuckles turned white. Amberhill noted it was indeed a handsome bow, with graceful curves and intricate carvings decorating it.

  “I ... I don’t know how to thank ye, sir,” the man said. His accent was of the west.

  “No need to worry about it. Those two have been asking for trouble for some time.”

  “Name’s Miller. Galen Miller.” He offered his hand and Amberhill shook it. It was a bowman’s hand and he was taken aback by the strength in it, despite the man’s apparent infirmity. Galen Miller then straightened; rose to his full height. He was tall and broad shouldered, but he could not control his trembling. He reminded Amberhill of an uncle of his who suffered from the shakes and declined over the years, his body deteriorating, his mind afflicted with senility, until eventually he wasted away, not at all resembling the proud, strong man he had once been.

  “My pleasure to meet you,” Amberhill said, not offering his name in kind. “This is not the safest of neighborhoods to linger in after dark.”

  “I’ve traveled a long way,” Galen Miller said. “Aye, a long way. I am lodging at this place.”

  “Here?” Amberhill asked, thinking the accommodations very rough.

  “It is the right place,” the man replied with conviction. He raised his gaze toward the roofline. “Aye, the right place.”

  “If you find it not to your liking, these will help you find better.” Amberhill folded three silvers into the man’s hand.

  Galen Miller’s eyes went wide. “Sir, I couldn’t! It’s too much.”

  “It is but a trifle. A welcome for a traveler to the city.”

  “Th-thank ye. This ... this means a great deal.”

  Amberhill nodded, wondering how to gracefully conclude the conversation so he might slip back into the shadows and resume his vigil.

  “You must try the bitter ale,” he said. “The inn is not the finest, but it has the best bitter ale in the city.”

  The man nodded. “Thank ye again.” He glanced at the inn, and while his attention was diverted, Amberhill melted back into the concealment of the shadows. He watched Galen Miller turn around as though to speak to him, then scratch his head at his absence. With a quavering shrug, the old man folded into himself again before entering the Cock and Hen.

  Amberhill smiled. He had not often gone out of his way to aid someone in need. He’d mostly been about helping himself, but after the debacle of Lady Estora’s abduction, something had changed within him. Maybe it was that he saw how one deed could affect others for good or ill. Maybe because he witnessed how the king’s Weapons and Green Riders—especially that G’ladheon woman—selflessly endangered themselves both out of duty and the desire to do the right thing. A part of him thought them mad, and another part of him thought them admirable.

  He’d wronged Lady Estora, but tried to rescue her when he realized what he’d done. He helped the G’ladheon woman escape the torture of Second Empire thugs and found ... he found he rather liked it, this helping others. He’d liked helping Galen Miller tonight.

  He smoothed his hand down his shirt as though stepping beyond the bounds of his own self-interest made him nervous. He wasn’t sure what he liked about it, but maybe it was the thrill of danger, like when, as the Raven Mask, he’d scaled the wall of some manse in the depths of night to enter a lady’s bedchamber to steal her jewels, and perhaps other things, even while her husband slept in the next room.

  Yes, there was that. The danger, the excitement.

  Yet, there was more to it.


  A glow of light flickered to life in the uppermost room of the Cock and Hen—perhaps the attic—and someone moved around in it. Galen Miller? Amberhill could have chosen to leave the old man to the toughs here on the street. There was a time when he probably would have. But now? He shook his head. There was the thrill of chasing the toughs off, no matter they were no challenge to him, and there was the pleasure of being the object of the old man’s gratitude. Yes, he liked that.

  Maybe this was also a little step in the direction of finding redemption. Amberhill could never right the wrong he’d committed against Lady Estora, and really the ripples of that wrong radiated out to her family and clan, to king and country, magnifying it a hundredfold, but he could at least take steps to redeem himself in his own eyes.

  Besides, one never knew what a good deed could lead to. Maybe Galen Miller would in turn come to someone else’s aid in some way. Amberhill smiled at the thought.

  PEARLS AND BONES

  Amberhill maintained his vigil into the early morning, listening as the city bells struck the hours. Patrons of the Cock and Hen came and went in varying degrees of drunkenness. He yawned, thinking he’d misheard the rumors and that maybe he’d do better to call it a night and go to bed, but just then two men staggered up the street toward the inn.

  They were lumpy forms beneath the light of streetlamps, and Amberhill’s nostrils flared much like his stallion’s when he caught a disagreeable scent on the air. The stench of rotten fish, pickled livers, and years of unwashed grime. It was familiar. Very familiar.

  The two reeled back and forth, arm in arm, as though on board a ship on a rolling sea. They sang, if it could be called such, their words slurred and their rough voices off-key. They were bound for the Cock and Hen and Amberhill wondered if even that establishment would welcome these two into its premises.