Green Rider

by Kristen Britain

  “Not just . . . Letitia?” Karigan looked all around her, wondering how many invisible servants might be in her room this very minute. It made her skin crawl.

  “Well, there’s Rolph the stableboy, and Farnham the groundskeeper, too.”

  “And you said they are invisible by accident?”

  Miss Bunch nodded mournfully. “Indeed, child. You see, Letitia was forever nagging Father. He tired of her pointing out the mud he tracked in from the garden, or the coating of magic dust he left in the library which she had to wipe up. He was consumed by his scholarship, and scraping off candle wax from tabletops, or leaving papers in orderly piles were not foremost in his mind.

  “One day, as Father was in the library hard at work studying some form of magic or another, Letitia stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. At it again, eh Professor? she said. A spill of that vile liquid in yon beaker will ruin the finish of your fine table and then where would we be? And after Herschel refinished it for you last month.”

  “Uh, who’s Herschel?” Karigan asked.

  “Herschel was our handyman. Was with the family for a hundred years, it seems. We believe he has passed on. . . . Things break now and then, and no one fixes them.” Miss Bunch emitted a sad sigh. “If he were lying dead somewhere, there was no way for us to see him.” She paused for a few moments, then continued her story. “Letitia nagged at Father until he commanded her to silence. I need quiet, woman, he said, not your endless nattering.”

  “Letitia is not one to just sit quietly while the chaos of clutter, dust, and bubbling fluids threaten to overwhelm her sense of domestic orderliness, but she had pressed him too far this time. Sir, she said, waving her dust rag in emphasis like a law reader about to present some crucial evidence to an arbiter, may I remind you that you threaten the sanitary concerns of this household, and you with two little daughters under your roof? She followed up that reproof with a tsk, tsk, tsk. And that’s when it happened.”

  “It?” Karigan asked.

  Miss Bunch fanned her face with her hand. “Yes, it. She tsked one too many times, and Father lost his patience. Remember now, their run-ins had been going on for a very long time, and the tension between them both had built up over the years. Father shouted, Servants should not be seen or heard! Well, that did it! We haven’t seen or heard any of the servants ever since. Not one of them. But we know they’re there.”

  “Wait.” Karigan held up her hand. “Your father said that servants should not be seen or heard, and Letitia and the others just disappeared?”

  “Well, no, child. Dear me, but I don’t tell stories as well as Bay. I left out one crucial fact. The ‘vile’ liquid Letitia feared that would ruin the finish of Father’s table was volatile with spells. The spells responded to his command unequivocally. He could not countermand it.”

  Karigan was aghast. “And the servants stayed with you even after your father . . . turned them invisible? Weren’t they angry?”

  “Of course they were upset, child. And terribly so. But they stayed in hopes that Father would find another spell to reverse the curse. He searched to exhaustion and illness to find one, and never stopped until he died. He was terribly remorseful, and I think the servants knew it. And yes, they stay on with us. Where else can they find positions, invisible as they are?”

  “And so, that’s it?” Karigan said. “Letitia and the rest will be invisible to the end of their days?”

  Miss Bunch nodded with a solemn expression on her face. “We try to treat them as well as possible, and continue Father’s search for a cure. We have picked up a thing or two about magic along the way, but so far nothing that will help the servants. Alas, there may not be an answer.”

  Karigan had no response this time, and Miss Bunch pulled herself out of the chair and patted her on the shoulder. “As I said, it is a painful story, one that we will never be free of. In the meantime, we go on as we must, and,” she added in a whisper, “we take care about what we say about whom. You never know who is listening in!”

  Miss Bunch moved to the doorway. “If you need anything, just call. I sleep down the hall. Bay can’t negotiate the stairs very well lately, poor dear, so she has taken a back room downstairs. Sleep well. Breakfast will be served when you wake.”

  Karigan was left alone in the room which, like all the others in the house, was well-appointed. A porcelain pitcher and bowl stood on a wash stand. The heavy bureau, carved intricately with pine boughs and cones, was draped with hand-embroidered linens. A huge cedar chest, full of coarse wool blankets, sat at the foot of the bed. A pieced quilt with a diamond-shaped motif flared like a starburst. She looked in satisfaction at her clean clothes neatly folded on the edge of the bed. She took the winged horse brooch from her robe pocket and pinned it to the lapel of the now spotless greatcoat.

  She checked the greatcoat for the love letter and found it intact and undamaged. Miraculously, or perhaps meticulously, the vigilant Letitia had removed it during the cleaning process, and replaced it after. The message satchel, too, had been placed on the bed. She hadn’t dared to open the leather case before, and though she felt the sisters could be trusted, she did so now. Inside was an envelope sealed with the wax imprint of a winged horse. All items accounted for, she could now sleep in peace.

  But then she caught sight of herself in the dresser mirror. Her image was like a ghost flowing by, her long white nightgown billowing behind her gauzy and luminous. She backed a few steps to gaze in the mirror. She found herself mostly unchanged from her travels, if a little thinner in the cheeks.

  There was a blemish beneath her left eye. She leaned toward the silver glass for a closer look. It wasn’t a blemish exactly, but a reddened crescent-shaped scratch just above the cheekbone, and just below her eye.

  She remembered the image of Immerez through the telescope, and the feel of his cold, metal hook against her cheek. She touched trembling fingers to the mark, and turned away from the mirror. It was coincidence and nothing more. She could have gotten the scratch from thrashing through the underbrush, or from her own fingernail. She could have gotten it from anywhere.

  Exhaustion was leading her to strange fancies, and she delayed going to bed no more. The bed was like the one her grandmother had used. It was so high that a stool was stashed beneath to help one climb into it. Karigan sank into the down mattress and clutched the blankets about her. It was hard to believe she had been with the sisters for only a day.

  This afternoon, she had been asleep on a patch of moss, not even sure how she had gotten there. Tonight, she lay in true luxury between crisp, cool sheets smelling as fresh as if they’d just been pulled off the line. She blew out the lamp on the nightstand and sighed in satisfaction. It had been a strange day, but there was nothing extraordinary about this gabled room or the comfortable featherbed.

  Karigan nestled under the covers. The house was draped in silence, but outside peepers cheeped in their springtime chant. The last sound she heard as she drifted into a heavy slumber, was the hoo-hoo-hooing of an owl in a tree below her window.

  In the morning, The Horse waited outside for Karigan. She had awakened to the warm glow of the rising sun, as Miss Bunchberry had promised she would, certain that she had slept hours upon hours. Yet, the sun was still low when she finally roused herself. Even when she took her time bathing, and breakfasting on the elusive Letitia’s cooking, the morning advanced very little. Time seemed . . . well, flexible at Seven Chimneys. She had slept in and taken her time in every endeavor, and yet, she was still getting on with her travels bright and early.

  The Horse was tacked, the saddlebags bulging to capacity. His chestnut coat glowed in the sun—someone, probably the invisible Rolph, had given him a bath and thorough brushing, and he looked handsome despite his gangly shape. Karigan gave him a companionable slap on the neck.

  “Before you go, child,” Miss Bayberry said from the front step, “we’ve a few things for you.”

  Karigan glanced at the bulging saddlebags and felt
the extra weight in her pack. “You’ve already given me so much—all the food and a change of clothes. . . .”

  “Nonsense, child. Those are just provisions. You have a little growing to do, and Bunch and I are concerned about your proper nourishment. We would like to give you some gifts. Very simple gifts.” She held forth a tiny sprig with dark green leaves. “My namesake, bayberry. When you find resolve failing you, when hope is lost, or you miss the deep scents of wild places, take a leaf and rub it between your fingers. The scent will refresh you, and perhaps you will think of me.”

  Karigan smiled as she took the bayberry. The freshly cut branch was fragrant.

  Miss Bunchberry had a shy smile on her face. She held in her palm a flower with four white petals. “Bunchberry is my namesake. There is a small patch in the woods behind the house just pushing up out of the ground with the spring. If you are in need of a friend, pluck a petal from the flower and let it drift in the wind. Perhaps you will also think of me. It won’t wither soon, child, as a good friendship should not.”

  “One more thing, child,” Miss Bayberry said. She pressed something cool and smooth into Karigan’s hand.Thin slivers of light beamed through her fingers, even in the bright sunshine.

  “The moonstone!” Karigan cried in awe. “I can’t take this. It was your father’s.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Miss Bayberry said. “It has taken to you. I daresay it never lights up for Bunch or me. And as for it being Father’s . . . well, I’m sure he would have wanted you to keep it.”

  Miss Bunchberry nodded in agreement. “Take it. It will light your way and keep you warm. It was the moonstones, they say, that held back the dark forces during the Long War. It should serve you well. May the moon shine brightly on your path.”

  “Thank you . . . thank you.” Karigan’s eyes grew moist. “Is there anything I can do for you? Take word of you to kin in Sacor City?”

  “My, but she’s taken to the part of being a messenger, hasn’t she, Bay?”

  “Definitely, but I’m afraid that we have no kin in Sacor City. Just a cousin down south and you wouldn’t want to meet her.”

  “Miss Poppy is very cranky,” Miss Bunchberry said.

  “And that doesn’t even begin to describe her. Child, you need do nothing for us, for you’ve done so much by giving us a little company, and as I mentioned before, Green Riders assisted our father in his search for knowledge. We are simply returning the favor. If you are back this way, do visit. Just watch out for brigands and thieves on the road.”

  Karigan didn’t think the sisters had gotten the better end of the deal, but this wasn’t one of her father’s bargaining sessions. She looked the manor house over, at the windows reflecting the woods, and at the chimneys puffing smoke. “Why,” she asked, “do you call this place Seven Chimneys?”

  “You mean when there are more than seven chimneys?” Miss Bunch asked. Karigan nodded. “Why, seven is a magical number. Nine is not, and Father wouldn’t use a name for his home that wasn’t magical.”

  Karigan chuckled and mounted The Horse. “I don’t even know how to get to Sacor City from here.”

  “East by north, child,” Miss Bayberry said. “East by north will get you there.”

  When it was apparent no further information was forthcoming, Karigan reluctantly turned The Horse down the road. Glancing once over her shoulder, she saw the two sisters standing side by side as they watched her leave. She waved, and they waved back. She wished, with a sigh, she could linger.

  All too soon, Seven Chimneys and the sisters disappeared behind a bend in the road, and shortly after, the road turned into a deer trail. She reined The Horse around, but found that the road was really gone, as if it had never existed. She circled around in the underbrush, but could find no evidence of it.

  “A road can’t just vanish,” she muttered. But then again, neither could a girl and a horse.

  MIRWELL

  Tomastine II, Governor of Mirwell Province, sank wearily into his worn, hide-upholstered armchair, facing a stone hearth large enough to walk into. The fire would do his bones good. It would relieve his joints of aches accumulated over an active lifetime of hunting and warring.

  Blast the cold damp, he thought.

  The Great Arms of Mirwell, two war hammers crossed over a mountain crazed with cracks and fissures, on a field of scarlet, drew one’s eye above the massive mantel. The creation of the Arms, according to the family chronicles, coincided with the formation of the Sacor Clans before the Long War. Clan Mirwell’s ancient roots were imbued with crushing opponents, of possessing the strength to strike down the very mountains. The Mirwells had never governed their province with a bejeweled scepter of gold, but with an iron hammer of war.

  Even so, over the generations, the province had grown quiet, almost sleepy. Two hundred years ago, however, it had not been that way. The clans had torn at each other’s throats for land and the glory of the family. Clan Mirwell had absorbed more land into its borders than it had lost, and acquired a reputation for savage brutality. Ah, the glory, when you knew what a man thought and he expressed it with his blade, instead of today’s spineless politicking of court eunuchs who stabbed you from behind with words.

  The high king of old was no more than a clan lord himself, sitting on a pretty throne watching all his liege lords—the clan chiefs—gut each other. The clan chiefs had eminent control over their lands and all those who lived within their borders. Once a year, in the rare display of peace, the chiefs swore their fealty to crown and country, paid their taxes to the realm, and that was that. Although the chiefs of Mirwell were often the close confidants of the kings, and served as advisors.

  Then King Agates Sealender, the last of his line with no heirs born to him, died of old age, and clan chief Smidhe Hillander, of Clan Hillander, ascended the throne. That’s when history went awry. Mirwell combed his fingers through his lank gray hair. Yes, everything changed with Clan Hillander.

  King Smidhe tamed the lands with his own forces, created permanent boundaries, and decried bloodshed between clans. He proclaimed the clan chiefs brothers and sisters, and said that the country of Sacoridia could never survive if it did not stand as one. There were other ways, he said, than bloodshed, to find glory.

  Indeed, the clans had never seen such unity since the Long War. King Smidhe said the founding clans of Sacoridia, when they created a high king, had never intended the chaos beset by the Sealender line. Mirwell snorted. King Smidhe pacified the clans. The chief of Clan Mirwell had fought the new way, but the king’s soldiers had come to him and Clan Mirwell was pacified, too. Mirwell’s soldiery had been decimated or run into the Teligmar Hills until they surrendered. The honor of the clan had never been clean since.

  King Smidhe bestowed the clan chiefs with new titles—they became lord-governors, and new industry was encouraged. Commerce blossomed as timber was harvested and granite quarried. Eventually the paper-making process was discovered and the printing press invented. King Smidhe even encouraged good relations with neighboring Rhovanny and trade developed among lesser clans whose merchant fleets plied coastal waters, elevating Sacoridia’s reputation as one of the wealthiest countries on the continent.

  The old high king was called the Great Peacemaker, and Province Day was established as a national holiday celebrated throughout the country in the summer to commemorate Sacoridia’s unity, and the man whose words were carved into his tomb in Sacor City. They read: There is greatness with unity. Only if we lift ourselves above our base and bestial natures shall we stand as one.

  The fire hissed and steamed with rain that seeped down the chimney, and Mirwell shook his head. The raging blood of his clan had never been truly gentled. Tournaments and hunting diverted some of the blood lust, but there wasn’t the same glory to be had. Oh, there were occasional forays into the Under Kingdoms. Mirwell had been on a few himself. But even now ties had been forged with those savages, and there was nothing. Nothing until now.

  The governor was det
ermined to raise his clan to its former glory, to once again attain a place in concert with Sacoridia’s kings, to expand forth its boundaries that now felt too crowded. He would control commerce and the distribution of wealth. And he would do it the old way: by force.

  Mirwell sighed, glancing at the crumpled letter on his lap sealed with the dean’s mark. Before shaking the very foundations of Sacoridia, he would first have to deal with his son, his only progeny despite a succession of wives and mistresses. Actually, he would deal with his son second. Someone was here to see him.

  “Report.”

  Captain Immerez stepped into the flickering light. It gleamed off his bald head. He had spent no small amount of time waiting for his lord’s notice. Mirwell was perfectly aware of this. Immerez’s face remained neutral, however, and his bow was deferential, despite the misery his wet, muddy uniform must have caused him.

  Immerez was young yet. He could stand it. The youngsters could traipse through the wilderness in all weather conditions, none the worse for wear. Mirwell had paid his dues in that way. The bear head mounted on the wall attested to his strength in the old days, and he was now content to manage his province by his fireside and let the young ones do the work, just as his father had before him.

  “My lord-governor,” the captain said. “We’ve killed the messenger.”

  “Good.” The captain could always be depended on to carry out his directives. He had been hand picked from hundreds of young soldiers years ago to help in raising Mirwell Province back to glory. “And what did you find out about a spy?”

  Immerez shifted uncomfortably. His one eye darted to and fro, and he licked his lips. Rain pattered against the window. “We were unable to extract that information before he died.”

  “What? I don’t find that satisfactory.”

  Immerez held his chin up. “The only way to stop him was to kill him.”

  Mirwell drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, which was carved in the likeness of a catamount’s head, and rubbed smooth by the years. “Meanwhile, someone may be loose within my household, imparting information of my plans to the king. Where’s the message?”