“Osric ...” she whispered.
He was clearly dead, his head tilted at a bad angle and his jaw flapping to the rhythm of Petrel’s strides. His eyes were missing, pecked out by the black flock that plunged and fluttered around him. He was secured to a wooden frame and propped in the saddle to sit erect, much like a mounted scarecrow.
Petrel herself was almost gone, stumbling as she approached the gates, her ribs protruding, and her nostrils dripping blood. Her once gleaming coat was now ragged and dull, and crossed with striations from the attack of some predator probably attracted by the scent of the corpse upon her back. The only sounds in the silence were Petrel’s harsh huffing and the sharp cries of the ravens.
Karigan could not move, could not look away, as Petrel passed by her. Osric’s lips were black and peeled back from his teeth. His ears and nose were nearly pecked away. Beneath the encrusted blood, she saw a thatch of blond hair she recognized.
Yes, Osric.
The man at the gates and the guards parted to let Petrel through. Karigan retched on the sickly sweet stench of rot that followed Osric, and Condor half-reared, the whites of his eyes showing.
“Gods,” Karigan said. She mastered Condor and kicked him past the donkey cart, through the gates and over the bridge to the castle grounds. Condor ran hard after Petrel, and tears glided across Karigan’s cheeks. She knew exactly where Petrel was headed.
In this, the final stretch of Petrel’s terrible journey with her beloved Rider dead upon her back, she put on an unearthly burst of speed, giving the last of her being to end it. Condor pounded after her; followed until they reached the small stone building that was officers quarters.
Petrel came to a trembling halt, and Karigan reined Condor to a walk. The door to officers quarters flung open, and Captain Mapstone stepped out.
Having completed her mission, Petrel’s legs buckled beneath her and she collapsed hard upon the earth, the corpse of Osric M’Grew going down stiff and lifeless with her.
A couple hours later, Karigan sat in the common room of the Rider wing, still not sure who Elgin Foxsmith was, except that it was the name of the fellow with the donkey cart at the castle gates. He’d followed after her on his own horse to officers quarters, arriving only moments after Petrel fell dead.
The captain, pale as bone, had ordered Karigan to inform the king, and as she reined Condor away from the awful scene to obey, the fellow dismounted and went to the captain, speaking softly to her, placing his hand on her shoulder.
As it turned out, word of Osric’s return reached the king and others ahead of Karigan and they were already rushing from the castle when she arrived. After that, she did the only thing she could do: she saw to Condor’s needs, then came to the common room to sit and wait. Wait for what, she did not know.
At some point, Elgin Foxsmith had come by in search of Mara, offering to take charge of the newer, younger Riders. He promised to keep them busy. Out of the way and away from senior Riders in mourning.
“I’ll explain it to the young ones,” he assured Mara.
Relieved of that concern, Mara went to the captain, and Elgin Foxsmith marched the young Riders out to the weapons practice field for calisthenics.
Karigan felt drained. She’d seen a lot of death during her time as a Rider, everything from the freshly killed to the ancient corpses down in the tombs, but never had she seen such a thing as Osric propped like that.
And the gaping sockets where his eyes should be ...
Beside her, Yates was passed out with his head on the table, a goblet tipped over by his half-curled hand, and the sour stench of wine heavy in the air. Garth sat in an armchair in front of the hearth quietly drunk, his eyes glassy.
Karigan did not drink. She could not even hold a cup for all the shaking. She had not changed out of her uniform—hadn’t even removed her boots or greatcoat.
The risks were known to each of them. Every time one of them set out on an errand for the king, there was the real possibility they might not return.
This was different, though. None expected to come back the way Osric had.
What color had his eyes been? Karigan found she could not remember.
Presently Mara returned. She stood in the doorway and glanced about as if dazed, then strode to the table and sat on a chair next to Karigan.
“I didn’t have a chance to say it before,” she said, “but I’m glad you’re back. Your visit with your family went well?”
Karigan nodded. Maybe later, when some time had passed, she’d give Mara the details. At the moment, all of that seemed far away and unimportant.
“Mara, what happened to Osric? Where was he?”
Mara rubbed her eyes as if to wash away some image. “He was keeping watch on Birch’s movements. Evidently he was caught.”
Birch. Second Empire. They’d already lost Constance and Harry in the darkest months of winter. They’d been watching Birch, too.
“King Zachary thinks Birch is mocking us,” Mara continued. “That’s why he sent Osric back the way he did. Our Riders are good, but Birch is saying he’s better, and he knows the king is spying on him.” She clenched her hands into fists. “Osric is being prepared for the trip home to his mother in D’Ivary. I already sent Tegan to take her the news.”
“And Petrel?”
“She’ll be buried in the pasture.”
Karigan nodded. No Rider horse went to the knacker. Still, she thought it sad horse and Rider would not be laid to rest together, but she knew how impractical that would be. She did not doubt the pair were together in the afterlife anyway, galloping among the stars.
“Who is Elgin Foxsmith?” she asked.
Mara actually smiled, though it was a tired smile. “My predecessor, or one of them. He was chief when our captain was a mere Rider. She asked him to come help with the new Riders a couple weeks ago, but we’d given up on him. Then there he was today. His timing, frankly, couldn’t have been better.”
When there was no more to be said, Karigan helped Mara put Yates to bed. Garth was too big and heavy to move, so they left him in his armchair staring into the fire.
Finally Karigan went to her own chamber. The door was cracked open, and when she stepped inside, she found the blanket on her bed covered with clumps of white cat hair as usual, and the purveyor of that hair lying on her pillow with his legs in the air. Ghost Kitty, who was in fact not at all a ghost, but one of the felines whose duty it was to patrol the tombs for rodents, barely acknowledged her entrance with a twitch of his tail.
“Well look who’s made himself at home,” Karigan said.
She set aside her saddlebags, removed the message satchel from her shoulder, and at last took off her greatcoat. She sat on her bed and stroked Ghost Kitty’s cheek, and was rewarded with a resounding purr.
She’d have nightmares tonight, but at least she wouldn’t be alone.
OF CIRCLES AND FORM
The Riders held a memorial circle for Osric, a practice conducted by Riders centuries ago, then forgotten, only to be rediscovered and revived thanks to Karigan, who had witnessed such a ceremony when she was pulled into the ancient past by wild magic.
Dakrias Brown, the castle’s chief administrator, gave over his records room for the purpose. The newer Riders stood in wonder as they gazed up at stained glass windows lit from behind with lanterns, bringing to life in rippling colors the exploits of the First Rider at the end of the Long War. At one time the records room had served as the castle library and the domed glass panels had originally been open to the sunlight, but they were eventually closed in to allow for the castle’s expansion. Some thought the blocking of the windows was actually King Agates Sealender’s expression of antipathy for his own Green Riders.
Captain Mapstone led the memorial circle, speaking of Osric and his deeds, and her own fond memories of him. Then she said, “I remember Osric.” And everyone responded, “Osric.” After that, around the circle they went, each Rider speaking the name of some comrade who had fa
llen in the line of duty.
Karigan fancied spirits hovered in the shadows, in and among the tall shelving that housed hundreds of years of dusty administrative records; that they looked down upon the assembly of Riders to offer their own respects. She couldn’t be sure they were really there, of course, but it seemed to her that presences other than the Riders filled the room.
Not to mention the records room had a reputation for being haunted ...
The following day, the Riders bore Osric’s coffin, draped in black, from the castle’s chapel through the maze of corridors, the sound of their boots on stone counterpoint to the music of some noble’s party spilling out of the conservatory.
The castle housed many different worlds: that of the monarch, of course, and all those who were close to him, the servants and administrative staff who helped run both castle and country; military personnel; various and sundry nobles; and finally, visitors of all kinds, from lowly commoners seeking an audience with the king to diplomats from other realms. Sometimes the various worlds intersected, but class and status often ensured they did not. As a result, there could be dozens of concurrent, but unrelated and uncoordinated, activities taking place among the different worlds.
While the kitchen staff embarked on a major inventory of pantries and cellars, a noble might be hosting a party when, in another part of the castle, the king’s messengers mourned the passing of one of their own.
Intellectually, Karigan knew all this, but it still left a bitter taste in her mouth as they approached the conservatory. A drunk aristocrat slumped against the corridor wall raised his cup to the passing Riders with a foolish grin on his face.
They do not care, Karigan thought.
Through the entryway of the conservatory she glimpsed dancing and glittering jewels as the musicians picked up the tempo. They did not care that some lowly, common messenger had been killed. After all, it was their privilege to have others die to keep them safe. And they wouldn’t even pause in their frivolity to show respect with silence.
Others in the corridors did, the more common folk. They stepped aside and bowed their heads as the somber Riders made their way past. Soldiers stood at attention and saluted. Humble servants reached out to touch the banner that draped the coffin. These people, Karigan thought, were the ones who understood the sacrifice.
At the bottom of the steps of the main castle entrance, the coffin was placed on a cart, and Osric was sent home to his mother with an escort of Green Riders, their banners rippling and snapping in the strong breeze as they rode away.
In the days that followed, winter crumbled apart, and the sun shone more intensely and for longer each day. Snowmelt gushed from weep holes and drainage spouts on the castle walls as loud and vigorous as mountain freshets. Ice on pathways turned to slush. True spring was still a way off and the air still held the bite of the north wind, but an end was in sight.
Karigan had spoken only briefly to Captain Mapstone after her return from Corsa, to hand over the message from her father. Osric’s grisly arrival was still all too fresh at the time, and the captain’s expression grim and pale. Quickly she scanned the message, raising an eyebrow and pursing her lips. Was it Karigan’s imagination, or did the captain’s expression warm and lighten just a bit? It was like a passing brightness between the clouds, however, and all too soon, she shuttered herself once more and excused Karigan with a curt, “Dismissed.”
From then on, except for the memorial circle and farewell to Osric, the Riders saw little of their captain. She was, Mara said, closeted with the king and his advisors in meetings.
“No doubt talking about Birch and Second Empire,” Mara said as she and Karigan helped Hep the stablehand feed the horses one afternoon. “And probably the Eletians, too.”
“Eletians? What about the Eletians?”
“That’s right,” Mara said, “you weren’t here. I guess with Osric and all, the Eletians weren’t the major gossip anymore. Three came to see the king.”
Karigan almost dropped her grain scoop. “Eletians were here? What did they want?”
“Apparently they wished to resupply all of Eletia with chocolate,” Mara said, separating flakes of hay to throw into another stall.
“What?”
Mara nodded sagely. “Took Master Gruntler days to get in enough sugar and cocoa to reopen his shop after the Eletians went through his stock. If you were craving Dragon Droppings, forget it.”
Horses who had not yet been fed made demanding whinnies, circled in their stalls, and kicked the walls. Perhaps the noisiest of the lot was Elgin’s donkey, Bucket, who, true to form, knocked his bucket around.
“Eletians came to Sacor City to buy chocolate? And that’s it?”
Mara struggled to keep a straight face, but could not. She laughed, leaving Karigan completely confounded.
“Mara!”
“All right, all right. They weren’t here just for the chocolate. According to the captain, the Eletians are going on an expedition into Blackveil.”
Karigan just stood there, stopped by she did not know what. The noise of the horses, Mara’s presence, the stable itself, all faded away. Her hand went to the moonstone in her pocket. Something niggled at her, but there was only a blankness in her mind. Was there something she should remember?
The tickle of a white feather across memory ...
“Karigan?”
Karigan shook her head. “Eletians,” she said.
Mara gave her an odd look. “Yes, Eletians.”
“And the king and his advisors are debating this expedition?”
“I guess, but what they are specifically discussing the captain hasn’t revealed. Not yet, anyway.” Mara shrugged. “If the Eletians want to get themselves killed by going into that place, it’s their business, if you ask me.”
Karigan resumed scooping grain into buckets in silence. Once again, the Eletians had come to Sacor City. What couldn’t she remember? She sighed. If it was important, it would come back to her.
Karigan discovered, to her dismay, no one had been attending to Rider accounts in her absence. Ordinarily the duty fell to the Chief Rider, but because of Karigan’s merchant background, the captain passed the duty on to her.
As she looked over the ledgers missing rows and rows of entries, she realized she had no one to blame but herself. She’d neglected to assign anyone the task while she was away—she’d been too wrapped up in worrying about the coming confrontation with her father.
“Idiot,” she berated herself over and over.
Now she paid for that neglect, frantically running back and forth between the quartermaster’s office and the administrative wing of the castle, seeking any record of transactions, and she plagued Mara and Connly to rack their brains for expenses.
One late night she filled the long table of the Rider common room with ledgers, crumpled receipts, and notes scrawled with half-remembered transactions. When she thought she’d go blind from all the figures, she laid her head on the table and placed an open ledger over her face to block the lamplight. She started to drift off, but was awakened by footsteps.
She sat up, knocking some papers to the floor. She blinked blearily to find Fergal standing before her.
“You’re working late,” he said. “It’s about midnight.”
“What are you doing up?” she demanded.
“I’ve tomorrow off, so I was down at the Cock and Hen.”
The Cock and Hen served the best bitter ale in the city, but was located in a seedy neighborhood. She bit her tongue to prevent herself from taking Fergal to task for venturing there on his own. His days as her trainee were over, but it wasn’t easy for her to slip from her role as mentor. To her mind he was still so young and inexperienced.
Young he may be, but he was now a full-fledged Rider responsible for his own conduct.
Fergal took a long, hard look at the mess on the table. “Glad that’s not my job.”
“Someone’s got to keep the books,” she said with a sigh.
“Just so long as I get paid,” Fergal said, and he left the common room whistling a tune.
“Paid?” Karigan said in honest horror. “Paid? Oh, gods, the payroll. I forgot the payroll.” And she gently thumped her forehead on the table.
If the Rider accounts mess wasn’t bad enough, there was weapons training with Arms Master Drent.
It was not every Green Rider who trained with Master Drent. In fact, currently there was only one other, and Beryl Spencer was so often away on secret missions for the king that Karigan might as well be the only one. Drent complained to no end that he’d yet to see a Green Rider attain swordmastery as their duties interrupted training far too much. Or the Rider simply got killed in the course of duty.
Drent trained only the best of the best swordmasters and swordmaster initiates. Among those he trained were the Weapons, the black-clad warriors who guarded royalty both living and dead. All Weapons were swordmasters, but not all swordmasters were Weapons. Drent’s most special pupil was the king, who was an accomplished swordmaster, though obviously the king could not become a Weapon since he could not guard himself.
Swordmasters sponsored and trained initiates, who achieved swordmastery if they passed a series of tests. From there, a swordmaster could seek service with a noble lord or go to the academy to train as a Weapon. The ways of the Weapons were secretive, and from what little Karigan could glean, the academy was located on a barren island miles off Hillander Province, where Weapons lived and trained in austere circumstances. When their training was complete they were tested one last time to determine their fitness. Drent was among those who had final say in which trainees were inducted into the elite order.
Karigan did not ask to become a swordmaster initiate, nor had she ever desired to train with Drent, but it appeared to be her fate, supported by both her captain and king. They seemed to think she had some talent with a sword. Drent was determined to prove them wrong.
Blackveil Page 11