When the exchange was complete, she looked down at herself in amazement, all in green. She feared Karigan’s uniform would prove too snug, and it was a tad, in the hips and breast, but she must have lost considerable weight as a captive. Karigan had even girded her with the sword to complete the illusion. When Estora protested that Karigan should retain it, Karigan said, “If all goes well, I will not need it.”
If Estora’s mother ever heard of this, she would faint. The unfamiliar weight of the sword banged her thigh with every movement. If she was careful, she would not trip over it. She experimented with walking about the cave.
“You are walking like a lady,” Karigan said. “Walk like you have business. Don’t flounce.”
“Flounce? I do not flounce.”
“Yes, you do. But you don’t have time to practice just now. You must help me with my hair.”
Karigan waited expectantly. The black habit made her look older, more severe, more mysterious, and somehow even more commanding than when in uniform.
Is that how I appear to others? Estora wondered. She didn’t think so, not precisely, anyway. Not so deadly serious. Karigan was going to place herself in the direct path of danger, and Estora read determination and a clear knowledge of what she was doing in her face. And it took her aback, for this was not a version of Karigan she often witnessed; this was not the Karigan with whom she had spent so much time sitting in the gardens gossiping, sharing dreams and fears. Those conversations in the safety of the castle walls were so far removed from where they were now that Estora wondered if they happened in another life.
This wouldn’t be the first time Karigan faced terrible danger, Estora knew. Karigan did not talk much about her exploits, but Estora had heard the stories from others, and when she helped Karigan with the corset, she glimpsed the scars on her ribs from old stab wounds.
“I think,” Estora said, “we can simply pin your braid up beneath the hat.” Somehow, her ridiculous hat with the pheasant feathers had survived its rough travel across country. She started to pull the pins from her own hair.
“How sharp are those?” Karigan asked. She took one from Estora and jabbed her finger with it. “Hmm. Fergal?”
The Rider turned and gaped at them, seeing them in their new attire for the first time.
“Fergal,” Karigan said, “please sharpen these hair pins for me.”
Sharpen the hair pins? Estora wondered. When Fergal completed the task, Estora coiled Karigan’s braid and neatly pinned it beneath the hat. Estora’s own hair was then braided into a long rope that fell between her shoulder blades. It felt strange, for she never wore her hair this way—not in public anyway, and the uniform! It was unnatural, but ever since Sarge had abducted her, nothing was as it should be. She could only think Karigan felt much the same but the Rider was busy helping Fergal clean up the evidence of their camp and tack the horses.
Estora, who was so accustomed to servants seeing to her every need, now felt guilty as she had not before that she wasn’t helping, but Karigan and Fergal appeared to have a routine worked out and she did not wish to disrupt it. Of late, she was discovering just how very useless she was.
When they finished, Karigan planted her hands on her hips and gazed steadily at Estora and Fergal.
“Fergal,” she said, “avoid towns as much as possible. Use the waystations.” She handed him the message satchel. “Maps are inside if you need them, as well as the messages we’ve collected. Your job is to return them to the king, but your most important duty is to return Lady Estora to him safely. Do you understand?”
Fergal reached out to receive the satchel with some hesitance. “Aye. I do. What about you?”
“I’ll make my way back to Sacor City as best I can,” she replied. “Don’t worry about me. Just worry about Lady Estora. Get her home safe and sound. As of today, you’re no longer a trainee. Do you understand, Fergal? You’re a true Green Rider, and I know you can do this.”
Fergal nodded, looking daunted by the task. Estora would have preferred Karigan to ride with them, but she would not be gainsaid.
Karigan then said to Estora, “Don’t draw that sword until Fergal shows you how to handle it.” She smiled. “It was F’ryan’s, you know.”
Estora’s voice caught in her throat. “I know.”
Karigan nodded, lifted her skirts, and walked over to Condor. She spoke words to him no one else could hear, and kissed his nose. Was it Estora’s imagination, or did the gelding look glum?
“I told him to take you home,” Karigan said to Estora. “And he will. Trust him. Now, as for Falan…” She turned to the mare, gazing at the sidesaddle rig with trepidation. “It’s been a while since I’ve sat a sidesaddle…” She stepped up on a rock to mount.
“Wait,” Fergal said.
Karigan turned, and the young man removed a knife from each boot. He offered them to her, hilts first. She gazed down at him with a startled expression.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “I haven’t practiced of late…”
He nodded. “Aye. Take ’em.”
“Well, then,” she said, “those villains will get a surprise if they come too close.”
“They’d have to be real close,” Fergal said.
The Riders laughed at some joke Estora was excluded from, then Karigan mounted, tangling the skirts of the habit in the process.
“Um…” she said.
Estora helped straighten everything out, but Karigan couldn’t quite get the seat right.
“Don’t sit to the side,” Estora instructed her. “Sit atop. You will be secure.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m going to slide off?” She reined Falan around, looking wobbly.
“Hold the balance strap if you need to,” Estora said.
“This is unsettling,” Karigan muttered, switching the double reins to her left hand and grabbing the balance strap with her right. “I can’t ride the whole time like this.”
“You’ll do fine,” Estora said, but it came out sounding more like a question.
“Such confidence.” To Fergal, Karigan said, “Give me a little time to get the attention of those searchers. After that, you will have to gauge when it’s best to leave the cave and make your escape. Don’t wait too long, though.”
He nodded once and looked at his feet.
“Godspeed,” Karigan said, and she clucked Falan toward the cave entrance, letting out a little “whoops!” when the mare lurched forward and unsettled her center of balance.
“Godspeed,” Estora whispered.
They watched her guide Falan away from the cave and down into the woods, which soon absorbed her. They waited minute after minute, until the waiting became unbearable. Then a sharp “Yoo hoo!” rang out in the forest, followed by the shouts of men.
“There she is!” one cried.
Estora bit her bottom lip, hoping her brave, foolish friend would be all right.
“I don’t think she’ll make it,” Fergal said suddenly, countering her thoughts.
Estora started at his pronouncement. “What are you saying?”
“I–I saw death around her.”
“What?”
“When…when my ability came. When we were in Mirwellton. I saw darkness around her, and wings. I’m sure it meant death.”
Estora felt herself blanche. “Why on Earth didn’t you say anything?”
Fergal gazed up at her looking haunted and very young. “It wouldn’t have changed her mind. She’d have gone anyway.”
Truer words could not have been spoken, and Estora trembled at the thought of never seeing her friend again. Oh, Karigan, why do you do these things?
“We’d best mount, my…my Rider,” Fergal said. He’d been ordered not to refer to her as Lady Estora in public, but as Rider Esther if any name must be given—close enough to Estora to remember, different enough to not attract attention. “We’d best make use of the time she’s trying to gain us.”
He was right, and Estora did as he instructed, struggling
to mount without a gentlemanly hand to assist her. The tears blurring her vision didn’t help matters. She apologized to Condor as she finally swung gracelessly into the saddle. Getting the saber tangled between her legs did not help. Like sidesaddle for Karigan, riding astride was going to be a trial for Estora. She was going to be very sore, and very humbled, by day’s end.
But if Karigan could play the decoy, Estora resolved to endure her portion of the escape without complaint.
Before Fergal motioned it was time to leave the cave, she sent up a small prayer to the gods that the decoy did not become trapped herself, and that Fergal was wrong about his vision of death.
BRAVE SOUL
Amberhill led Goss along the confusion of hoofprints that disturbed the pine needles, dead leaves, and mosses of the forest floor. They went off in all directions, crisscrossing and turning round on themselves. Fresh piles of horse droppings revealed all the activity was recent. He concluded that a good many riders were in the area, not just Lady Estora and her captors.
He paused and scratched his head, wondering which direction he should go. He gazed up at the sun, estimating it was mid-to late afternoon. The sun set quickly this time of year—too quickly—and clouds were beginning to move in.
Lowering his gaze, he could see through the trees the rounded ridges of what must be the Teligmar Hills, which were, as he recalled, the most notable prominences in the west of Sacoridia. They’d come far, and Amberhill felt every step of the journey in his bones. Goss, though a tad thinner in the ribs, appeared to thrive on the extended running. It was all for the good, Amberhill supposed, but just went to show his stallion was more muscle than brains. He patted Goss’ neck.
“Which way?” he wondered.
After some consideration, he decided to keep traveling westward. That was the direction the captors had been heading all along, so perhaps they had not deviated, and the confusion of prints was coincidental. Amberhill doubted it, but he hoped.
A clearing brightened between the tree trunks ahead, and as he neared it, he realized it was a road. He paused on the edge of the woods, squinting in the brightness. Just to his right was an intersection with a signpost. It indicated Mirwellton to the south, Adolind Province’s border to the north, and the Teligmar Road leading westward. Though there was no eastward road, Amberhill knew this to be the Teligmar Crossroads.
“How am I to find them now?”
If Lady Estora’s captors used one of the roads, it would be next to impossible to know which way they went. Amberhill stood there despairing over what he should do, berating himself anew that he hadn’t caught up with them, that he’d lost too much time getting lost and stashing away jewels. He glanced at the dragon ring on his finger, the blood ruby fiery in the full sun, and he thought to tear it off his finger and throw it away when Goss jerked his head up and snorted, ears twitching.
Shortly Amberhill discerned what Goss already detected—hoofbeats pounding down the road at a great clip. Around a curve in the road she came, leaning low over her light-footed hunter’s neck, leaving a plume of dust in her wake.
Straight through the intersection she galloped, northward.
Lady Estora!
Goss started to rear and Amberhill grappled with the reins to keep him down. But even before he calmed Goss enough to mount, he heard more hooves, multiplied many times over, in pursuit. One, then five, then ten, then twenty riders altogether whipped by and spurred their horses after Lady Estora.
“Oh, no,” Amberhill moaned. Lady Estora showed tremendous courage and spirit in her escape attempt—however she’d managed it—but he had no hope it would end well with so many riders pursuing her.
His only choice now was to follow.
The plan, Karigan thought, was simple enough: distract the ruffians so Estora and Fergal could escape. Disguised as Estora and riding her white mare to complete the illusion, it was not difficult to lure the ruffians after her.
From there, it was supposed to be easy: outrun them. And pray for a quick nightfall so she could use her ability and vanish. She’d ride to a waystation on the Adolind border, hide and rest, then return to Sacor City to report.
Unfortunately she erred by not taking Falan’s ability into account. The mare lacked the speed and endurance of Condor, and the poor thing had been cruelly pushed on her journey west. She tired rapidly.
Karigan should have waited until closer to sundown to make her move, but the ruffians were so close to their hideout she was certain they would have been trapped if she waited. At least this way Estora and Fergal had a chance at escape.
Her own chances? She glanced over her shoulder and saw the riders several horse lengths behind her, and gaining. Not good.
Falan stumbled and Karigan lurched forward, but the pommel held her leg securely and she didn’t lose her seat. The mare recovered her footing, but Karigan knew it meant the pursuers were even closer.
She hurtled through the intersection of the crossroads, willing the mare to run faster. The farther she led the ruffians on, the better chance Estora and Fergal had of escaping.
Odd, but it wasn’t all that long ago Karigan had felt hurt every time she saw Estora around the castle after the betrothal announcement, and she’d rejoiced to leave on a message errand to get away from all the wedding frivolity. And now here she was, disguised as Estora; Estora who was to marry King Zachary, the man Karigan had fallen in love with.
When she’d seen Estora at the crossroads, all the resentment and hurt had fallen away, and she had not hesitated to aid her. Her actions here and now would, if all went well, allow Estora to return to King Zachary so they could marry as planned. She appreciated the irony, but she also knew her duty. Estora’s safety came well before her own, and no matter that Karigan had tried to distance herself from her and end their friendship, she was still a friend.
But why did Estora have to be such a lady and ride sidesaddle?
Falan careened around a curve in the road, the poor mare huffing and lathered in sweat. Karigan glanced over her shoulder again, and there were her pursuers, still gaining. One had a crossbow.
Damnation. She could try veering into the woods to make it more difficult for the bowman to aim, but she saw no likely spots to enter.
A bolt skittered along the road ahead of her lifting puffs of dirt. Falan spooked but Karigan steadied her and kicked her on. The bowman would not be able to reload at a full gallop. She watched the roadside for an escape route that would not involve trees scraping her off Falan or tumbling down a steep embankment. If she could evade her pursuers for long enough in the woods, she could use her ability as the sun crept down in the west. She did not like to think what would happen if the men caught her.
Even as she renewed her determination and found a likely opening in the woods, Falan failed her.
One moment the mare was running full tilt, the next she stumbled, went down, plowed into the road on her chest, launching Karigan from the saddle, hurling her through the air.
Time stretched, Karigan seemed to hang in the air forever, awaiting the inevitable. And then—
She slammed into sharp gravel and hard dirt in front of the mare. She lay there, the fall not yet penetrating her mind. She shook her head and saw Falan trying to rise, but she could not. The mare emitted a plaintive cry unlike any Karigan had ever heard from a horse.
Gradually she became aware of a burning pain in the palms of her hands, her elbows, and her knees. She gazed at her palms. Estora’s fine doeskin gloves were shredded, revealing chewed flesh embedded with gravel and dirt, and seeping blood. She knew it must be the same for her knees and elbows. Then all at once, everything hurt, all her joints and muscles were crying out for attention, though nothing appeared to be broken. Unlike poor Falan.
The ruffians slowed their approach and came to a halt before her in a great cloud of dust. She couldn’t outrun them on foot even if she could make her limbs obey her.
Training took over, Drent screaming in her ear, berating her for being t
oo slow, for thinking too much. She needed not to think, but to act. She drew the knives from her boots into her stinging hands. The first she threw did not hit the lead man as she intended, but went wide and hit the man next to him. He tumbled from his saddle. Before the ruffians recovered their wits to respond, she threw the second knife and took out another man, his expression one of surprise. Karigan was surprised as well. Fergal, she thought, would be proud of her.
Men dismounted and surrounded her. She couldn’t get her addled mind to count how many there were. Didn’t matter anyway. There were too many of them, and only one of her.
The leader walked over to her. “It appears, my lady, you have teeth.”
“Who is she, Sarge?” another asked. “That ain’t the real lady, is it?”
Something deep in Karigan’s memory stirred. Sarge…
“No, you idiot, this is not Lady Estora.” He squinted at her as though trying to recall something himself, then shook his head. “She’ll tell us soon enough where the lady is hiding.”
He reached for Karigan. Gritting her teeth against the pain of her raw hands, she grasped a handful of sand and gravel from the road and tossed it into his face. His hand went to his eyes as he cursed.
Karigan sprang upon him and wrested his sword from him. She went to strike him, but another man’s sword stopped her blow. Men shouted, were moving all around, raising a haze of dust. She swung the blade again, and again it was parried. The corset shortened her breath even though she’d told Estora not to secure it too tightly. Dust clogged her nose and throat, and her skirts whirled about her ankles. Each moment she kept her foes occupied won another moment for Estora and Fergal.
She focused on the swords, lost sense of her pain, and let the training take command of her. She’d trained to fight while well-attired, and this time she wore not fancy shoes, but her own boots, and the habit’s skirts were not so confining. She had those advantages, at least.
Her sword drove through the stomach of her foe. She withdrew it and went after the next blade, and the next. She nearly succeeded in killing the fellow when someone slammed into her from behind, knocking her to the ground and the sword from her hand, out of reach.
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