First Rider's Call (58 page)

 

Karigan moved with great care atop the foundation of Rider barracks, side-stepping heaps of rubble. Laborers had knocked down the hazardous chimneys only this morning, and sawed down charred beams that had still been standing or hanging precariously.

All had been lost. She found only hints of the lives that had inhabited barracks: a boot heel, the charred pages of a book—when she touched it, the pages turned to ash and drifted into the breeze. She found deformed buckles and cutlery, and broken crockery protruding from the soot like fragments of bone.

Two hundred years of Rider history was gone, the corridors Gwyer Warhein once strode, the rooms in which Bard Martin and Ereal M’Farthon had slept, and the common room where generations of Riders had raised their voices in laughter and song.

She paused where her own room had once stood. The damage here was even more severe than other parts of barracks. Hep told her the fire had started in this vicinity. Gone were her few books and spare uniforms, and whatever other trinkets she had kept.

A sparkle in the rubble caught her eye. Stepping carefully on weakened floorboards, she squatted down and looked closely. More sparkles rippled in rainbow hues across the ruins in front of her. Moonstone fragments.

She took one into her hand. Sharp and clear, it refracted the sunlight in different intensities as she turned it over on her palm. She closed her fingers around it. It had been unblemished by the fire, and it was almost as if it had captured the light of the fire within itself. She dared not collect other fragments for fear of falling through the floorboards. In an odd way, it gladdened her that things of such beauty drew the sun to a place of such devastation. She dropped the fragment into the ashes.

Before she stood, she caught sight of something else, a pattern of black against black, an irregular circlet. Unable to reach it with her hand, she drew her longknife and retrieved it on the blade’s tip. It was a lead crown of twined branches. A crown like the wraith Varadgrim had worn. But how could a crown made of lead have withstood the heat of the fire? Before she could even contemplate its significance, it lost shape and writhed on the end of her blade. She cried out and dropped it onto the foundation, where it oozed and boiled like a live thing, blue-black and oily.

It slithered off the foundation to the ground, and burrowed beneath charred earth and vanished.

Karigan shuddered. What had the wraith been doing here,
here
at Rider barracks? In her own room? What had it been after? Had Mara or Ephram had the misfortune of encountering it? There were so many questions, and only Mara had the answers, if she lived long enough to give them.

Covered in soot and ashes, Karigan turned to jump from the foundation when her toe nudged a piece of metal. She picked it up. Blackened and contorted, she nevertheless knew exactly what it was: her mother’s mirror. Yet another piece of her own history destroyed. Never again would she gaze into the mirror as her mother once had, never would she see in it again the reflection her father said so resembled Kariny’s.

 

The first Rider to return from an errand arrived that afternoon. Karigan found Garth kneeling in front of barracks, his face stricken with a shock she knew only too well. She stood beside him, her hand on his massive shoulder. His mare, Chickadee, stood on his other side, head low and ears flicking back and forth.

“Wh-what happened?” Garth asked.

She told him best as she could, about the fire, Ephram, Mara. And the news about Alton, a quaver in her voice. She had never seen the big man cry before. There had been no gentle way to break the news to him, and maybe in retrospect, he’d appreciate her forthrightness.

Chickadee lipped at her partner’s shoulder, knowing something was greatly amiss. With Hep’s help, Karigan walked Garth to the mending wing, where he accepted a sleeping draught without argument. Once he was safely abed and snoring, Karigan sought out the mender, Ben.

She found him in a workroom aromatic with herbs, jars filled with powders for remedies lining shelves. At a table he crushed dried leaves with a pestle. When he noticed her entrance, he dropped the pestle and backed away.

Karigan frowned, and raised her hands to show him she was unarmed. He relaxed, but remained at a safe distance.

“I came to apologize,” Karigan said, “for my behavior last night.”

“Thank you. I understand you were under great duress.”

“I still am,” she said softly, “but it’s no excuse. I don’t know why I drew the sword. It was wrong.”

A period of awkwardness followed. “Rider Brennyn’s condition is unchanged,” Ben offered.

“I see.”

Her disappointment was so plain, he added, “It’s better than you think. She hasn’t declined.”

She smiled briefly. “Thank you. Will you continue to update me?”

“Of course, Rider.”

“Please, call me Karigan.”

This time Ben smiled.

Later, Karigan returned to the stable loft to sleep. She spread out her bedroll on the hay and laid down. She covered herself with the king’s longcoat. She knew she should have returned it, but she guessed he wouldn’t miss it for just one more night. Right now, it was the only comfort she had.

 

Early the next morning, she was summoned by a runner of the Green Foot to attend the king. Reluctantly she draped his longcoat over her arm and hastened after the runner.

To her surprise, the lad did not lead her to the throne room or the king’s study, but to a normally abandoned corridor that was currently anything but. Lamps lit the work of an army of servants scrubbing down walls and the floor. The king stood with his manservant directing the work, using a sword,
her
saber, as a pointer. A pair of Weapons stood opposite one another against the walls.

“Good morning, Rider G’ladheon,” the king said.

She bowed. “Good morning, Excellency.”

“What do you think?” He brandished her saber down the corridor.

“What do I think? I—um, about what, precisely?”

The king reached over and plucked a piece of hay from her hair. Her cheeks flamed. “Don’t plan to live in the hayloft, do you?” His voice was quiet, but there was a playfulness in his demeanor. He was like the month of Janure, always changing, always unpredictable.

Then she took his meaning and glanced again down the corridor, a corridor lined with doorways to small chambers.

“Yes, Rider,” he said. “It is time the Green Riders came home.” He took her arm and they strolled down the corridor, he pointing out the efforts of the servants to ready it for occupation. Karigan was dubious—the mold and dust were thick, and the rooms in decrepit condition.

“Before Agates Sealender came to mistrust his Riders,” the king explained, “this is where they lived—right here, in this corridor. And this is where they shall live again.”

The windows in the rooms, those not boarded over, were mere arrow slits, leaving the rooms dark and gloomy. How would they be furnished? How would they be heated in the winter? A hundred such questions paraded through Karigan’s mind, but she didn’t voice them because the king was so obviously pleased with himself.

“I know it won’t be the same as the fine old barracks to which you’ve grown accustomed,” he said, “but I think once it’s cleaned up and made habitable again, Riders will bring new life to this section of the castle. I promise you it will soon be far more inviting than it may now appear.

“In the meantime, you and the other Riders shall be quartered in the east wing.” He winked at her. “Quarters fit for visiting royalty—very nicely appointed. Sperren shall see to it.”

Karigan swallowed that.

“I suppose you would like this back.” He handed her the saber, hilt first.

She took it, and passed him his longcoat. “Thank you,” she said, “for
everything.
”

“You are very welcome.” There was a hint of a smile on his lips meant just for her. He turned to leave, but paused and faced her once again. “I expect you to attend me during this afternoon’s slate of meetings,” he said. “Cummings will fill you in.”

With that, he and his Weapons departed. Karigan stood in the corridor, the servants working around her. Who was Cummings, and where would she find him? What meetings?

She shook her head and started down the corridor. And came to a startled halt as a sensation of being watched crawled across her skin. She glanced back at the servants, but they were intent on their work. None even looked her way.

The light touch of an air current stroked her cheek, and there was a murmur in her ear. Drafts whirled around her legs, then dissipated.

She shuddered and strode rapidly out of the corridor, her future home.

TIDINGS FROM THE WALL

Cummings, Karigan learned, was the king’s personal secretary, a very efficient man who worked not out of the administrative wing, but in the royal offices of the west wing. Each morning he sent a Green Foot runner to Karigan’s luxurious new quarters in the east wing with a list of meetings and audiences at which the king required her presence. The king also wished her to continue her training sessions with Arms Master Drent, and none of the meetings on Cummings’ lists ever conflicted with these.

Karigan now better understood the running-around Captain Mapstone and Mara had engaged in.

When Tegan rode in, Karigan asked her to handle the daily needs of the Riders. Garth busied himself in overseeing the refurbishing of the “new” Rider quarters, including seeking out bits of furniture locked up in storage here and there. Some of the pieces he found were fancy and ostentatious, and some truly bizarre, often from another era and discarded as out of fashion or lacking taste. Most pieces were of a simpler, utilitarian nature, but the combination lent an air of eccentricity to the Rider wing. The important thing was that they were sound.

He found an especially ornate wardrobe of cherry carved with fancy scrollwork and some unknown coat of arms. The details were inlaid with yellowing ivory. Inside were drawer compartments with knobs of pearl, as well as space to hang clothes. It had belonged to some wealthy but forgotten clan, Karigan supposed. Garth declared the wardrobe hers.

“You, um, didn’t take this from the king’s apartments, did you?”

Garth put his hands on his hips and gave her his most offended look. “Of course not. It was thrown in with the rest, where they store all the unwanted stuff. It had a broken leg, and
I
fixed it.”

Chagrined, Karigan properly admired his handiwork, and helped him move it into her new room. Fortunately these rooms were larger than those of the old Rider barracks, for the wardrobe was a behemoth.

She helped Garth when she could, moving furniture or sweeping out rooms, scaring cobwebs from dark corners, and arranging for glaziers to fix windows. As more Riders arrived, they pitched in where they could, as if the work in some way helped them deal with their losses.

The king’s meetings and audiences felt far less productive to Karigan. She stood mutely at his side as he and his other advisors met with dignitaries, courtiers, or anyone whose business was important enough to be brought before the king.

It was, on a level, interesting to be privy to such meetings, but like Mara, she felt no more than an ornament in green. The king did not need her. Rarely did he even seek her input.

There were some instances in which he did, but she was more of the mind of a teacher leading a pupil into solving a problem. He knew the answers before he even asked. She didn’t take it as patronizing; he wasn’t like that. It was his way of assessing her skill.

The king often took his meetings and private audiences not in the throne room, but in a smaller chamber in the west wing. It was richly appointed with velvet hangings and thick carpeting. A broad hearth was situated behind a smaller rendition of the throne. A long table and chairs could be moved into place if there was to be a large meeting.

It happened that a visitor arrived one midday, a young man in well made traveler’s garb, accompanied by retainers. This was the newly confirmed Lord-Governor Hendry Penburn, son of the late lady-governor.

The king stood to greet him, taking both the young man’s hands into his own, and murmuring condolences for the loss of his mother.

“She died serving her people,” the young lord said, “and I think that’s how she’d like to be remembered.”

As the king and Hendry spoke more of Lady Penburn, Karigan found herself impressed by the young man’s composure. Despite his innocent, unmarred features, he came across as competent and confident, no small tribute to his mother’s upbringing.

“I am, of course, answering your summons, Majesty,” Hendry said, “as well as seeking your blessing on my governorship.”

“You are the first to arrive,” the king said. “And you already have my blessings, but I shall formally recognize your office when all the others are present.”