“I—” Karigan smiled feebly. “Hello.”
Estora took Karigan’s hands into her own. “I am ever so pleased to see you well after your long journey. Shall we sit?”
When Karigan had returned to Sacor City a year ago, an unlikely friendship had evolved between them. Unlikely because Estora was heir to Coutre Province, and normally inaccessible to a common messenger. Yet over the past year they found themselves encountering one another in the gardens, where both came to think over whatever was on their minds.
Karigan found Estora a ready listener to the frustrations of Rider life. Estora, in turn, spoke of growing up in Coutre Province and life in court. Perhaps she found some connection with Karigan because she could speak of her lost secret lover, Rider F’ryan Coblebay. Karigan had been the last to see him alive, and at his dying, she had “inherited” his saber, horse, and brooch. Did Estora think of F’ryan when she looked upon Karigan?
“I am sorry for the loss of Lieutenant M’Farthon and Rider Martin.”
The unexpected words, like a key turned in a lock, were all it took. Grief, otherwise all but suppressed by other more immediate needs, suddenly founted to the surface. They came from the depths of a soul exhausted by loss and a harsh journey. Karigan had not allowed herself to give in to the grief before, that great threatening wave, but somehow with a few simple words and the sympathy Estora all but radiated, the breakwater Karigan had so firmly formed in her mind was destroyed.
Estora rubbed Karigan’s back and murmured soothing words until her racking sobs abated, and then handed her a handkerchief scented with lavender. Karigan blew lustily into it. In the wake of her tears, she felt tired to the bone, as if the last of her energy had been stored for this moment; and a little embarrassed by having lost control in front of someone else.
She found herself telling Estora about the journey. It was not the same as the telling of the previous night, a factual line of events; now she colored the telling with her own fears and anguish.
Estora did not interrupt, but listened gravely, sadness clouding her features as Karigan related the grittier portion of her tale. When she finished, the catharsis left her feeling more tired than ever, yet eminently relieved by finally having let go.
“Thank you,” she said, “for listening to all that.”
“I am sorry you experienced it, but I am glad you could speak to me of it. You Riders undergo dangers I cannot even imagine, and you do it out of love for the king and Sacoridia. Yet many take your service for granted.” She shook her head, her braids sweeping across her back. “I know if Alton were here, he’d be of great comfort to you.”
Karigan looked sharply at her, wondering what she knew about Alton. He had, by Karigan’s design, rarely entered their conversations.
Estora did not miss her reaction and laughed gently. “Now, don’t give me that look, Karigan G’ladheon. You did mention his name just often enough for me to make some guesses, and even now in your expression, I see them confirmed.”
Karigan frowned. Was she always so transparent?
“You see, life in court has taught me the art of observation,” Estora explained. “Expression, voice, and even gestures can tell one much that is not revealed in words.” Her eyes twinkled at Karigan’s discomfiture. “Do not worry, I am much practiced, and you did not reveal yourself easily.”
There was that, Karigan supposed. “What is it you think you know?”
“I know you are good friends, and it was once almost more. It is not such a bad thing for those who would be lovers to find friendship instead. Sometimes it makes the binding closer.”
Binding? How close was that binding? Karigan wondered. The fact was, she and Alton rarely saw one another. This, as much as anything, had quelled any romantic feelings they might have entertained. It was awfully hard to carry on a relationship when both parties were constantly on the run, but such was the life of a Green Rider.
Karigan had taken some leave time with Alton to Woodhaven, the stronghold of Clan D’Yer, and it had been a special time. Yet it reinforced the fact that both of them had changed over the year she was away from Sacor City; time had opened a gulf between them.
Yet she intensely missed Alton and wished he were here for her to talk with. More so than even Estora, he would’ve understood all that she had gone through while on delegation duty. Estora was right about the binding of friendship—it allowed a freedom of openness between them, and dispensed with the awkwardness they had felt as almost-lovers.
Mostly she worried about him being near the wall. What could he do to stop its deterioration? He was but one man against an ancient bulwark built by his ancestors so long ago. At the wall he’d be at the threshold of Blackveil Forest and its legendary darkness.
Karigan had learned the importance of friendship time and again. Alton had once saved her life by putting himself between her and an arrow. Would she ever have a chance to show him the depth of her friendship when he was in need?
Currently he was too far away, and Estora was all too correct about the dangers Green Riders faced.
Journal of Hadriax el Fex
Alessandros has been in a state ever since the Elt rebuffed his overtures. I have never seen him so angry. They wish to have no part of us or the Empire, and have, in fact, told us to leave these shores and never return again. They will be dismayed to learn that additional ships bearing imperial troops and supplies are en route.
Still, as stubborn and high-minded as these Elt have proven to be, they are entrancingly beautiful, and gifted in the art. In fact, their land fairly reeks of etherea, which we detected though they did not permit us far beyond their border.
It is as though meeting them has awakened something in Alessandros that he cannot shake off—a longing. They are all he speaks of. He has commanded our patrols to capture any Elt they encounter.
WITHIN SHADOW’S REACH
A burst of wind plastered Alton D’Yer’s hair back from his face and pelted him with dust and debris. He tore off his glove to rub grit from his eyes. All around him understory trees lunged and thrashed like wild beasts, and far above, the spires of great pines swayed against a backdrop of rapidly moving clouds.
Change of weather, he thought, undismayed. The wind kept the biters off, and he’d be at the wall encampment long before any storms rolled in.
He guided Night Hawk along at a leisurely walk, resting him after the driven pace they’d already traveled that day. Alton found it hard to settle in to the slower pace, what with a wide path recently carved into the woods before him and the wall drawing him like a spark to tinder.
The wall. Slowly he tugged his glove back on, looking ahead to see if he could glimpse it, but no, the thick forest still hid it. He would see it soon enough.
Or would he?
Alton had felt the unrelenting pull of the wall for some time now; as unrelenting as the Rider call. He heard voices calling out to him when his mind was quiet and subdued by sleep. Voices of grief and alarm, and they grew increasingly urgent as time passed.
Simple dreams?
Dreams that would not leave him then, if dreams they were. The voices were many, male and female, and twined with song and a strong beat, as of a hammer on rock. There was also a discordance that went against the rhythm, part of the wrongness within the wall.
Maybe his ancestors of old once knew the voices, or maybe it was something yet buried in the minds of the other members of his bloodline, but not awakened. If it wasn’t just some wishful thinking of his own, might he be able to tap into the powers of the wall and gain some understanding of it, and maybe even fix it?
He had a proven magical ability. This gave him more of a chance of succeeding where the rest of them failed, or so his father and uncle reasoned. Odd how his father, Lord-Governor Quentin D’Yer, felt his son’s vocation as a Green Rider beneath him, yet wanted to use at the wall the very abilities that made him a Rider.
Alton’s ancestors used magic to build the wall, but in the years followi
ng had shunned it as had much of the rest of Sacoridia. Many users of magic had died in the scourge of disease that followed the Long War, their secrets dying with them. At first the D’Yers had faithfully watched the wall; guarded against whatever menace lay behind it in Blackveil Forest, but at some point that watchfulness faded, until none of the clan even bothered visiting the wall.
Now Alton felt guilt, guilt that his clan had not maintained their watchfulness or kept the secrets of the wall. Now, their ignorance endangered all of Sacoridia, and it was their responsibility to restore their vigilance, and somehow repair the breach created by Shawdell the Eletian.
Alton shifted the reins in his hands. It didn’t matter, he supposed, what his father or uncle thought. It wasn’t just clan duty that brought him here. He would’ve come on his own, to answer the voices that haunted his dreams.
Wind blasted him again, stealing his breath, and Night Hawk side-stepped beneath him.
“A little wind tickling your belly?”
The black gelding snorted, and Alton grinned, clapping him on the neck. “It won’t be long before you’ve got your nose in a grain sack, old boy.”
The turning of the wind carried to him the sounds of a struggle ahead—outcries and thudding, the crushing of vegetation.
He took up the slack in Night Hawk’s reins and squeezed him forward at a cautious jog, laying his hand on the hilt of his saber, unsure of what he might find. Around a bend he came upon two ponies munching happily on the lower branches of trees that lined the trail. One had already stepped on the reins of its very fine bridle and snapped them.
Just beyond the ponies, two little boys locked together in a fight rolled on the ground batting at one another.
“Did not!” one cried.
“Did too!” the other shouted back.
Alton’s eyebrows shot up in surprise—and consternation.
“Did not!” That one, with the black hair, was his young cousin, Teral.
“Did too!” And that one, with the sandy hair, was Alton’s younger brother, Marc.
Alton sighed and let his hand fall from his sword. He dismounted Night Hawk and strode over to the boys, towering over them. Too caught up in their struggle—Marc was now yanking on Teral’s hair—they were oblivious to his presence.
He reached down and grabbed each boy by his collar and hauled him to his feet. Though he held them at arm’s length, they still swung at one another, pummeling the air.
“Stop!” Alton jostled them a bit to get their attention. “What’s this all about?”
The boys paused, and smiles curved on their faces when they realized who restrained them. Then they both began to giggle. Alton hoisted the boys under his arms and whirled them around in a dizzying ride.
“Fighting, eh? Why, I’ll teach you to get into fights!” The faster he whirled, the harder they laughed and yelled in delight.
Alton realized belatedly that the boys had put on some serious weight since he had last played with them in this manner, and he thought his arms might stretch till his knuckles dragged on the ground. Rather unsteadily he set them down, and just as quickly his brother looped his arms about his waist. “Alton!”
In a shot Teral was at Night Hawk’s side, trying to clamber up the stirrup leather to mount the gelding, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth with the effort. And he was succeeding quite nicely, too. Night Hawk tolerated it, but he didn’t look happy.
The boys’ finery was ripped and covered with dirt. Both were scratched and bruised, but from what Alton could tell, neither seemed seriously hurt.
“Why were you fighting?” he demanded. “And more importantly, what are you two doing out here all alone?”
“Not alone!” Marc said.
“Yeah,” Teral said, triumphant atop Night Hawk. “My brother’s watching us.”
“Oh? Where is he then?”
“He was kissing Lady Valia in the trees where he thought no one could see them,” Marc cheerfully reported, “so we run away.”
“Ran,” Alton absently corrected. Had Uncle Landrew gone mad by allowing small boys and noblewomen within shadow’s reach of the wall?
Teral puckered his lips and made loud smooching sounds, which Marc thought was just hilarious. Both boys became helpless with giggles and Alton found himself smiling. He wondered how Pendric, Teral’s older brother, had convinced Lady Valia to kiss him. In any case, Pendric wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping watch on the boys, and Alton couldn’t blame them for taking the opportunity to escape him.
“Hey! I wanna ride Hawk, too,” Marc said.
Alton lifted his brother onto the saddle behind Teral. Teral shook the reins and banged his legs against Night Hawk to make him go forward, his feet barely extending beyond the saddle flaps. Night Hawk’s expression was decidedly glum.
“Go easy on him, Teral, and he’ll walk for you.”
The boy listened, and Alton whispered an encouragement to Night Hawk who lumbered forward at his command. Alton then collected the two ponies and led them beside his own horse.
“Hey, are you going to marry Lady Estora?” Marc asked.
The directness of the question so startled Alton he stumbled over a root. Yet it shouldn’t surprise him too much—the matter of ending his bachelorhood was practically dinner conversation among the adults within his clan, and something the boys were apt to overhear. He was the heir to Quentin D’Yer, and next in line to govern D’Yer Province. Naturally, finding him a wife of suitable quality and station to be the future lady of D’Yer Province was of utmost importance.
“Pendric says he has a pig’s chance,” Teral piped up.
“Good! I hope he marries Karigan.”
Alton’s mouth dropped open. Where was this coming from?
“He can’t marry her,” Teral said.
“Why not?”
“ ’Cuz she’s common.”
“I don’t care—I like her. She brought me candy—loads of it from Master Gruntler’s Sugary in Sacor City.”
“Did not!”
“Did so!”
Alton wasn’t sure who poked whom first, but another full scale scuffle was threatening to erupt, this time on poor Night Hawk’s back. The gelding lowered his head and heaved a mournful sigh.
“Now stop!” Alton cried. “Stop or you can both walk back.”
This settled them down—a little.
“Did so,” Marc said under his breath.
Teral turned in the saddle to stick out his tongue, but they banged foreheads, and ended up laughing up roarously. Alton rolled his eyes.
When he had brought Karigan to Woodhaven for the mid-winter holiday, Marc had taken to her like a long-lost sister. Karigan, with no siblings of her own, and little experienced around young ones, was a bit overwhelmed at first, but soon the two were fast friends. Marc showed her his favorite pony, a litter of pups in the stable, his collection of toy warriors, the decorative short sword he wore on state occasions, his secret place in the wine cellar he thought no one else knew about, and that was within the first half hour. He dragged her along by the hand, she laughing all the way. It was certainly a side of Karigan Alton hadn’t seen before.
“So are you gonna marry Lady Estora?” Teral demanded.
“And have babies?” Marc chimed in.
Alton halted so abruptly one of the ponies bumped its nose into the small of his back.
“Why do you ask?”
“ ’Cuz Pendric told Lady Valia that Lady Estora wouldn’t have some Greenie for a husband. It’s beneath her.”
“She wouldn’t have your brother neither,” Marc said.
Aaah, Alton thought. Pendric’s offer to Lord Coutre had been rejected then. He licked his lips, relieved. Not that Lord Coutre hadn’t received and rejected a hundred such proposals from other prospective suitors, but it would have been galling if, out of all of them, Pendric’s had been accepted.
Alton walked on, tugging on the reins of the ponies, wondering what the status of his own proposal w
as. His father had sent it to Coutre Province with one of his most trusted retainers, about two months ago. Thought of it made his insides churn.
Lady Estora was desirable to many a suitor, not only for her near legendary beauty, but for her status as heir of Coutre Province. Marrying her would create a very beneficial alliance for whomever won her favor—not only with Coutre Province, but with all the other provinces east of the Wingsong Mountains, as well. Old Lord Coutre, it was said, kept his daughter at the castle in Sacor City to exhibit her like a prize, and those seeking alliance and power were undeterred in their pursuit of her.
Alton had had few interactions with her, but was impressed by her genuine warmth and kindness. He knew she had been F’ryan Coblebay’s lover. All the Riders knew, and kept her secret, a secret that could cause her conservative father to disown her if he ever found out. Yet, he felt uncomfortable around her, like she was more of a masterwork of art than a real woman.
He shook his head. It was just as well he had left Sacor City where he was apt to encounter Estora, or Karigan for that matter. He had always known he’d marry for station and alliance, not love or friendship, but it didn’t make things any easier.
Wind tousled his hair and flipped leaves, revealing their silvery undersides. Two riders approached and he immediately recognized Pendric’s broad form and thick black hair. He sat upon an impressive bay hunter, a finely bred animal to say the least. Pendric’s countenance was angry, and he looked no happier to see Alton.
Beside him Lady Valia rode side-saddle upon her mare, her skirts draped decorously behind her. He had seen her a couple years ago when she was—what?—twelve? She had grown and blossomed into a pretty young lady.
Pendric swatted his horse with his riding crop to canter the short distance to Alton and the boys, then pulled sharply on the reins when he reached them.
“What do you think you were doing by running off?” Pendric demanded of the boys, ignoring Alton altogether.
The boys chattered their excuses in high-pitched voices until Pendric cut them off. “Enough.” He pointed the crop at them, spooking his horse in the process. He yanked on the reins again. With such rough handling, it wouldn’t be long before the hunter had a sour disposition. Not unlike its rider. No matter, Uncle Landrew would likely buy without hesitation another finely bred steed for Pendric to ruin.
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