Green Rider

by Kristen Britain

  “I must reach Sacor City before the Mirwellians find me again.”

  Abram muttered something under his breath—it sounded more like a growl—and tapped his fingers on the flat of the ax head. Smoke rings drifted to the rafters one after the other. “Strange things certainly have been happening. King’s men have been in the region of late, hunting out groundmites, so I understand. But a breach in the D’Yer Wall? That bodes evil. Mornhavon the Black perverted the trees of Blackveil, and they’ve never recovered.”

  “So the Eletian told me.”

  Abram’s eyes brightened. “I’d hand over my ax to meet an Eletian. I knew in my heart they weren’t legend. A sylvan folk they are, dwellers of the Elt Wood, just as I’m a dweller of this forest. And to think they were wandering through Sacoridia’s Green Cloak! It’s an honor.”

  Karigan pulled the moonstone from her pocket, certain that Abram would like to see it. The shadows of evening vanished in silver light, bringing to mind dancers in a forest clearing and moonstones glimmering on evergreen boughs.

  Abram’s eyes opened wide. “What is it?”

  “A moonstone. A real moonstone.”

  “Now that I thought a legend. The Eletians gave it to you?”

  “Uh, no. The Berry sisters I told you about. They gave it to me.” She explained the professor’s predilection for magical artifacts.

  “A most unusual hobby,” Abram said.

  Karigan didn’t hear him. Whatever it was the sisters had said about North, it was nagging her again. And then, like a bright flash of sunlight, it came to her. East by north, they had said. East by north. Karigan sat up straight.

  “What is it?” Abram asked.

  “I told them I didn’t know how to get to Sacor City, and they said to go east by North.” She had a sudden urge to giggle. When they had first told her to go east by North, she had thought it pure nonsense.

  “That would make sense.” Abram puffed on his pipe as if she had said nothing unusual. “The road ends in North. To reach Sacor City, you must travel east, and then south. If you were traveling from Selium, you certainly went out of your way.”

  “The Horse refused to put one hoof on the Kingway.”

  “Yes, messenger horses are a strange breed. A trifle uncanny. They’ve more common sense than most.”

  “I need to get to Sacor City. I suppose that means going through North.”

  “Yes, but you best do so with utmost caution,” Abram said. “As I said, North is lawless and wild, and these are strange times with strange folk traveling. Why, you’ve already met up with brigands. I avoid North, myself.”

  “What kind of strange folk?” Karigan wanted to know. “You can find brigands anywhere, even in Selium.”

  “There is a woman from Rhovanny, an exile, stirring up trouble. Wants to rid all the lands of monarchs and let the people rule.” Abram stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Anarchy, I call it. Yet there are many who follow her and believe the rumors of new taxes on lumbering. Supposedly the taxes will go toward fortifying Sacor City and the royal house. Folks tied up in the paper and ship building trades are infuriated.

  “Other rumors circulate. The king turned down a proposal to marry a princess of the Cloud Islands which would have fostered a profitable alliance. Now the queen of the Islands is insulted and may refuse to trade with Sacoridia altogether. The Cloud Islands bring fruit, spices, and whale oil.

  “It is said that King Zachary still believes the old magic should be put into use again. Most folk believe that using magic will summon the evil of Mornhavon the Black. When you go to North, you must be quiet about the abilities of your brooch. The least magic will provoke suspicion.”

  “One can only hope these rumors are isolated—” Karigan knew they would not be, however. Her own father was suspicious of anything remotely related to magic.

  “If rumors are to be believed, there have already been assassination attempts on King Zachary. Others are calling for his brother to take the throne.”

  Jendara’s “rightful king” was Zachary’s brother, she was sure, and would explain the swordmaster’s devotion as a Weapon. But what did Mirwell have to do with it?

  “North is not friendly to representatives of the king, or would-be representatives.” Abram thrust the poker at the logs on the fire. A flurry of sparks shot up the chimney. “As I said, I won’t go there myself. Already I’ve been accused of being a forestry regulator.”

  “Is there any way to go around North?”

  Abram shook his head. “If you travel east or south from here, the River Terrygood lies in your path. At this time of the year, its current runs strong and deadly. Should you attempt to ford it, even your big horse would be swept away like a leaf in a whirlpool. At midsummer or later you might ford it, but not now. The only bridge is in North.”

  Karigan sagged against her pillow. “Is there any good news?”

  “There is. I will lead you through the woods to a point on the North Road, not far from town. In the woods, I can ensure your safety.”

  Karigan nodded. “That sounds encouraging. What about town itself?”

  Abram grimaced, or at least his whiskers drooped. “I will not go upon the road which is beyond my boundaries. You must travel the rest of the way yourself. You should reach town by evening, and will probably wish to stay the night. Not the best of circumstances, but I know of a respectable inn that caters to the few merchants who travel this way. It is called the Fallen Tree. It is costly, but worth it. Avoid all others. When you leave North, you will find on the other end of town there is a horse track leading east and then south. It will take you partway to Sacor City. The rest will be through open countryside.”

  Karigan tucked her knees up to her body and wrapped her arms around them. It was beginning to sound like she was nearing the end of her journey and she grinned. “Thank you, Abram. It won’t be long now before I give King Zachary his message.”

  “Do not let your guard down, no matter how near the king’s castle you are,” Abram cautioned. “It would be easy to do so, with this as the last leg of your journey. Be watchful.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good . . .” Abram tapped his pipe against the fireplace. “Then on to more pleasant topics. You told me of your adventures, so now I will tell you some of my tales.”

  Abram spoke long into the night. His stories took shape slowly and deliberately, his voice low and melodious. He told stories of other Green Riders who had passed through his domain:

  “Disaster seemed to follow young Mayer like a crow. The shelf would fall down when he placed a book on it, or he’d trip out the door. One night he accidentally kicked a bucket of ashes on the floor and nearly set the cabin on fire.” Abram pointed to a charred spot on the floor near the fireplace. “Disaster helped him on one ride, however. He was in Afton Village, which is in Coutre Province, during market. He fell right off his horse onto a fruit stand. The woman tending it, the daughter of a wealthy farmer, married him. Mayer no longer carries messages on dangerous rides, but tends blueberry barrens on his own acreage.”

  Abram chuckled with the memory. “There was Leon, a fierce gambler by all accounts, who came from a questionable background before he joined the messenger service. He reformed many of his ways, but never the gaming spirit, and he used to sit with me before this very fire trying to swindle the last copper from me. More often than not he succeeded. Until the very last game.

  “And there was Evony, Evony with her beautiful voice who should have been at Selium for music instead of wearing the colors of the Green Riders.” He shook his head sadly.“She was killed by a noble angered by the message she bore.”

  Abram’s stories spanned more than fifty years, slowly unfolding the heritage of the Green Riders. He remembered the name of every Rider he met, along with some small detail.

  “Will you remember me?” Karigan asked.

  “Indeed I will. In you I see the spirit of the First Rider, she who carried the messages when Sacoridia was newly c
reated. Even your name speaks of ancient times. Galadeon it would’ve been pronounced in the old days, not much different than today. Its meaning, however is beyond my knowledge. I expect to hear more about you in the years to come, young Karigan. This mission of yours is just a beginning.”

  “I just want it to be over with.”

  Abram shook his head. “Green Riders are always in haste. Do you know there is a legend that, during the Long War, the messenger horses of the Sacor Clans could fly? Your big red doesn’t look likely to sprout wings, so I don’t take the legend literally. Perhaps the horses were extraordinarily swift. Who’s to say? The old days were odd and rife with magic. I imagine the legend is what inspired the winged horse insignia of the Green Riders.”

  Abram told tales in his melodious voice until Karigan couldn’t keep her eyes open. Vaguely, she was aware of him pulling a blanket up to her shoulders and leaving as if in a cloud of smoke, the scent of tobacco lingering behind.

  Green Riders trampled through Karigan’s dreams. They galloped along wooded trails, horse hooves thundered over wooden bridges. A horse and Rider surged up a mountain slope, slipping and staggering on loose gravel and sand. A toothy range of snow-capped purple mountains loomed behind them.

  A messenger cantered her horse along the shore, and hooves splashed through ocean waves and sent up cascades of salty spray. The Rider laughed in pure joy. Another Green Rider rode down a cobbled city street, face grim and saber bare. The throb of hooves grew like a heartbeat.

  Karigan sat astride The Horse, kicking up snow as they galloped through some winter scene. The sound of hoofbeats merged into great wingbeats as The Horse sprouted white feathered wings and flew up above the snow, above the woods and mountains, through the blue of the sky, and higher yet among the stars. Here they flew among the immortals of the heavens, past the Sword of Sevelon, past the Hunter’s Belt, past the Throne of Candor the Great, and Aeryc and Aeryon smiled on them.

  In time, they descended from the stars and glided through the dark of night, through the canopy of the forest to the floor. The greens and browns of the woods were intensely deep as if damp.

  The beat still carried the dream, but this time it was not hooves or wings, but Abram Rust swinging his ax against the trunk of a great white pine. When he stopped, an echo continued the pulsing rhythm. He mopped his brow of sweat and turned to her. This tree will make the mast of a ship that will carry you through the Ages.

  A winged horse was carved into the trunk. Abram Rust laughed, and with one more mighty blow, the tree crashed to its side leaving a gaping hole in the canopy to the sky. The night was coated with stars like a sprinkling of sugar.

  Then the dreams dissipated, like pipe smoke.

  GRAY ONE

  “I’ve seen nothing like that,” the blacksmith snapped. “You had best move on. Folks here don’t take kindly to your type.”

  Joy Overway watched in resignation as the blacksmith disappeared into the hazy dark of his shop. His was the same response she had received all day. She wondered if the good citizens of North would honestly tell her if they had seen F’ryan’s horse, or the girl. Not without a hefty bribe, no doubt. She carried just enough currency to get her to Selium, then back to Sacor City, with none left over for bribes. Alas, she didn’t possess Captain Mapstone’s talent for seeing the truth in a person’s words.

  The most forthcoming citizen had been a fortune-teller in one of the inns. Joy frowned. The woman had predicted ominous and mysterious things, and had placed on the table a fortune card of a messenger fleeing arrows. “What’s this?” she had asked. The fortune-teller leaned forward, her eyes wide. “You will not find what you seek if you stay on your present course,” she whispered. “If you do continue down this path, your footsteps will lead you to disaster.”

  Joy had left in disgust. More time wasted. The fortune-teller hadn’t even bothered to concoct a prediction as to where F’ryan’s horse was, or where she might locate the girl. Just these vague, titillating warnings that were the common practice for the fortune-telling trade, used to draw the unsuspecting in to spend more currency for more fabricated prognostications. Strange part was, the fortune-teller hadn’t even hinted at a fee for the information she did provide.

  Joy mounted her horse and guided him down the muddy “main street” which flowed between ramshackle mercantiles and a seeming overabundance of pubs, and no too few brothels among them. At this peak hour in the afternoon, these places were quiet. Much of the populace was out in the woods felling trees. Soon enough however, after the sun set, the town would erupt with noise, light, and life.

  When the river could be forded later in the season, most Green Riders preferred bushwhacking across the countryside in a circuitous route rather than riding directly through North. If time was of the essence, then they might gallop through town so fast that no one was the wiser. Unfortunately, Joy’s mission entailed that she make inquiries in the village itself. And she had made enough of those as far as she was concerned. The people here were incredibly hostile.

  She patted Red Wing’s neck. “We’ll spend a peaceful night at the waystation, then get as far away from this place as possible.”

  Red Wing bobbed his head as if in agreement. They headed south through town at a walk. Joy didn’t want to give the locals the satisfaction of seeing her run.

  In all, it was a strange assignment she had been sent on. Perhaps it wasn’t so strange for her to look for F’ryan’s horse if he still carried the message. But the girl? Someone had pull with Captain Mapstone, and that particular someone had to have a lot of pull. It was not in the captain’s nature to involve her messengers in non-Rider affairs.

  Connly had sent her a very good image of the girl. Whoever sought her must have been describing her as he sent. The girl was in her late teen years, a young woman actually, and had a well-structured face, was tall, and dressed well. An aristocrat? Connly didn’t elaborate.

  Joy smiled. Every contact with Connly was like a gentle caress on her mind. Every night they united this intimate way, their minds touching, sending words and pictures back and forth. It helped make their separation more bearable, though it was no substitute for being together.

  She reined Red Wing around a group of people, the King-Haters, as she had taken to calling them. The Anti-Monarchy Society was just so much hoof glop. They were spreading ill rumors about King Zachary, and the people of North fell into their cause with relish.

  “You are a slave, sister!” one of the people told her. “A kingless land is a free land. Monarchy is tyranny.”

  Joy urged Red Wing into a canter before the King-Haters could start chanting more slogans. “I wouldn’t be doing this job if I didn’t believe in my king,” she told her horse. “I’m no slave.”

  Once Joy was out of town, she exhaled with relief, and pulled Red Wing to a walk. She could feel her muscles loosen as the tension lifted from her. The road was quiet except for the chorusing of peepers in the lengthening shadows. Only one other rider headed in-town. He was cloaked entirely in gray and rode at a leisurely walk. Red Wing pressed his ears back against his neck.

  “What is it?” she asked him.

  Red Wing snorted and sidestepped as the rider drew abreast of them. The man was cloaked and hooded, and she couldn’t tell anything about him, except for a tendril of gold hair that escaped his hood. He drew his horse to a halt.

  Joy nodded to him and rode on by. He did not speak to her, or even acknowledge her, and she was glad. Something about him made the back of her neck twinge. She glanced over her shoulder to see if he had ridden on. He hadn’t. He was following her.

  He drew a black arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bow.

  “Oh, gods,” she whispered. Connly had told her how F’ryan died. Two black arrows in his back.

  She had only to touch Red Wing to send him flying into a gallop. She veered off the road, crouching low in the saddle. There was nowhere to hide, though. The woods were clear cut.

  Red Wing s
tretched his legs downslope where a boggy pond was rimmed with a thicket of trees. In the trees, bow and arrow would be next to useless. The gray rider’s horse pounded after her, his hoofbeats like an echo of Red Wing’s. The gray rider drew abreast of her even over the uncertain ground, plunging over snags of wood, and across slippery granite.

  The gray rider dropped his reins, guiding his horse with the touch of his legs and knees. He drew his bowstring and an arrow sang.

  Red Wing stumbled beneath Joy, fell away like her own footing lost. She rolled clear as he tumbled haunches over head, the air thick with his screams, his hooves flailing up toward the sky. Then he stilled. Dust drifted and settled about him where he lay dead, an arrow in his throat.

  Joy hauled herself behind him, face wet with tears, and grief jammed like a fist in her throat. Her leg was twisted at the wrong angle, her thigh bone protruding through ragged muscle and skin like an ivory bull’s horn. She could not feel it, but darkness hovered at the edges of her mind. She drew her saber though it would be no defense against arrows.

  The gray rider sat still and silent on his steed. He nocked another arrow and aimed it at her. She heard whispers issue from his hood as if he spoke invocations over the arrow. Or maybe it was the gods calling her.

  Pain exploded in Joy’s chest. “Connly,” she croaked. The world became gauzy around her, and she could feel life leaking away and a darkness spreading in her chest like a disease.

  The gray rider sat silhouetted on his horse. He drew out yet another arrow and nocked it to the bow.

  She clutched her wound and blood gouted out as if to fill her hands like cups. “Why?” She mouthed the word more than spoke it.

  The gray rider drew the bow string. “You shall serve me.”

  His voice, she thought, was melodic.

  He loosed the arrow.

  Joy seemed to be looking at the night sky filled with bright pinpoints of stars where the gods awaited her. She drifted; was drawn upward. Somewhere above her, vast wings fluttered—it was Westrion come to take her soul to the heavens. Cares fell away from her as she floated light and incorporeal.