Tiers of courtyards, gardens, and the pasture softened the blunt effect of the castle. Smaller buildings, the barracks of the regular militia and the Green Riders, stables, and other structures, clustered at its base like children at their mother’s knee.
Karigan thought about the fragile people who dwelled within the forbidding fortress. She thought of stern Captain Mapstone scouring a love letter for hints to some Mirwellian conspiracy. She thought of poor Mel, young and alone, trapped inside those cold, stone walls. King Zachary was trapped, too, and he was just as alone as Mel, doing a job he never wanted to do. Caught by circumstance as she had been.
She felt regret on her own part for leaving these people who had been kind to her, but they were caught up in great things, and she felt tired, so tired. She had had enough intrigue and danger to last generations, and it was time for more capable hands to pick up where she had left off. When I get home, everything will be all right. She felt regret at leaving, but also relief.
Karigan and Alton continued downward, the castle and grounds soon lost from view behind the protective, encircling wall. Below them, houses and shops with cedar-shingled roofs jutted in jagged, descending disorder. Two more walls spread outward like growth rings. As the city had grown, new walls were built to surround it and protect it.
They rode through the second wall which led into the old part of the city. Peddlers hawking their wares filled the street. Musicians played on street corners for coins thrown by those who stopped to listen. Folk of all stations roamed the streets on horseback or in buckboards and carriages, and they yanked on rope leads to coax oxen to follow them. Shoppers paused at booths and ducked into well-stocked emporiums.
A small knot of people huddled up to a building where a woman stood on a hogshead. Karigan started in surprise, for it was the leader of the Anti-Monarchy Society, Lorilie Dorran. The woman’s eyes were wide as she took in the commotion of the city, and despite the meager group that had collected to listen to her, she spoke fervently, waving her fist this way and that in the air. Karigan heard nothing of the speech except an occasional “tyranny” or “taxes.” Lorilie’s supporters worked the crowds, passing out leaflets. A young man thrust one into Alton’s face.
Alton looked it over and scowled. “A waste of good paper, this.” He crumpled it in his fist.
“What did it say?” Karigan asked.
“It listed King Zachary’s crimes against the people of Sacoridia.”
It was not long before Lorilie Dorran and her supporters were lost in the moving throng, and Alton pointed across the thoroughfare to a Green Rider maneuvering her horse uphill and against the flow of traffic. She wove between wagons overloaded with wine casks, around children playing in the street, and a merchant burdened with numerous packages. She used her reins one-handed to guide her horse, tapping the gelding’s flanks with her heels.
“That’s Patrici,” Alton said, “Captain Mapstone’s aide. She comes from the borderlands where her clan raises horses. See how she handles Plover? Horses are in her blood.”
Patrici guided her horse into any available opening, picking up speed when possible. Not many in the crowd were inclined to get out of her way.
“She’s in a hurry,” Alton said. “I wonder what message she’s carrying. Must be important. This press can be a real aggravation when you have to get to the castle in a hurry.” Again, he frowned.
“Now what?” Karigan asked.
“The city has been filling up with commoners of late.”
Karigan halted Condor, unmindful of the traffic that jammed behind her. Alton turned Night Hawk about to see what the problem was.
“Are you going to start telling me they don’t belong here in your opinion?” she asked. “Because if you are, I’ll go the rest of the way on my own.”
Alton blushed. “I-I didn’t mean to offend. I was just making an observation. Truly.”
“I hope so,” Karigan said. “Those folk have been subject to groundmites and thieves taking advantage of them. Don’t you think they have a right to seek safety within the king’s walls?”
“Well, yes, I suppose. But there are so many of them.”
Karigan shook her head and urged Condor right past Alton. Night Hawk nosed up alongside her.
“I’m sorry,” Alton said. “I just can’t seem to say the right things around you.”
Alton would have fit in admirably at Selium, Karigan thought. The aristocratic girls who were her classmates would have talked of nothing else other than handsome Alton D’Yer with his square chin and radiant smile. She shook her head.
“I understand your father’s wealth is worth more than that of many lords,” Alton said. “He could probably purchase whole provinces.”
Karigan glared at him. “It wasn’t always that way. My father earned everything he has. He wasn’t born to it.” She tossed her head and concentrated on the road, but did not miss Alton’s stung expression. Of course, she had been too little to remember how her parents had struggled, but she had heard enough stories.
The scent of freshly baked bread drifted to her from the stall of some vendor along the street. Strains of a well-known tune reached her from a busker playing a lute.
“Perhaps we shall see the king,” Alton said in a ploy to change the subject. It worked, for Karigan’s attention suddenly focused on him.
“The king? What do you mean? We’re heading out of Sacor City, not in.”
Alton fussed with Night Hawk’s reins. “The king has gone hunting. For hare, mostly . . .with his dogs. I was invited along with some other nobles, but I opted to ride with you.”
That was interesting. Most aristocrats would seek the king’s favor whenever possible, and yet here he was, riding with her, the daughter of a merchant. She couldn’t help but be disarmed, and she flashed a smile at him.
Before they passed through the last wall, Karigan ducked into the shop of a likely clothier. It was not long before she exited the shop frowning.
“What’s wrong?” Alton asked.
“I haven’t the coin to purchase even a plain shirt.”
“Things are more expensive in the city. I could help if—”
“No thanks. I’ll check elsewhere.” They stopped at several shops, but the problem was the same. Karigan did not have enough currency.
“As I said before,” Alton remarked, “green is your color.”
Karigan did not reply.
They left Sacor City and the crowds behind and were soon surrounded by meadows and cultivated fields. The cobble streets transformed into dusty, meandering dirt roads, not much better than the North Road. Uplands curved to the east, their ridges crowned by a mix of evergreens and deciduous trees. The road itself began to rise on an upland so that a valley formed between two ridges.
“The Lost Lake,” Alton said. “Before the Long War, a lake existed here. It is said that if one pure of heart looked into it on a full moon night when the stars shone bright, they could see straight into the heavens and speak with the gods. Indura Luin is its old name, Mirror of the Moon.”
Karigan cocked her head skeptically. “By looking into a lake? At night?” She did not believe in myths. “What happened to the lake?”
“It is said Mornhavon the Black drained it, for it gave too many answers to his enemies.”
In the valley, the grasses were lush amidst stalks of purple lupine. A narrow stream gurgled through the valley basin. She could almost believe the part about Mornhavon the Black. Her experiences since she had left Selium convinced her that magic did exist, but could one possess enough to drain an entire lake?
Laren Mapstone paced before the empty throne chair, feet echoing hollowly on the stone floor. With the king absent, only two silver-and-black-clad guards stood at the throne room entrance. She prayed that wherever the king was, he had taken all of his Weapons with him.
Where was Crowe?
Hours upon hours had been spent deciphering F’ryan Coblebay’s letter to Lady Estora. A message hidden within t
he message. The king was in grave danger and they might already be too late to prevent an assassination attempt. She had instructed the Chief Rider to assemble as many Riders as possible, to find everyone that was in the city who wasn’t on a run. If they were about to head out on a run, he was to delay them, and get every Rider mounted, armed, and ready to move. However, it did not look too hopeful that many would be available.
The clearing of a throat broke into her thoughts. “Captain, you wished to see me?”
Laren turned on Crowe. He leaned on his staff of office, long, cobalt robes brushing the floor. His piercing black eyes, and the way he cocked his head were decidedly crowlike.
“Castellan, thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.”
“Short notice, indeed. The king gave me today as a holiday.”
Crowe must think her an idiot if he believed she called him here for some trivial matter. “This concerns the king. I fear for his safety.”
“We all do. Every day.”
Laren felt the sudden urge to grab him by his robes and shake him. “I have evidence that the king now faces a specific danger today.”
“What sort of evidence?”
“Karigan G’ladheon carried with her not one message, but two. The second was written in the guise of a letter to a friend of F’ryan Coblebay’s.”
“Karigan who?”
“The girl from Selium who—”
“Oh, that one. Yes, proceed.”
Laren screamed inside at the delay. “The letter spoke of trouble from the king’s brother, that he was planning to take the throne by force, with help from Mirwell, on the day of the king’s annual spring hunt. It spoke also of an Eletian who could not be trusted.”
Crowe gazed impassively at her. “Where is this letter? Could I see it, please?”
“No. I can’t give you the letter. It was entrusted to me by F’ryan Coblebay’s friend who wishes anonymity.”
“Then why should I trust your information?”
Laren counted to ten before she spoke, but there was still an edge to her voice. “Why shouldn’t you trust the information? We are talking about one of the most trustworthy Riders I knew. He died trying to deliver this message. You’ve never questioned me before, and you know I can see the truth in the message.”
“Ah.” Crowe squinted his eyes and nodded.
“Where is the king, Crowe? Where did he take the hunt?”
“He wished that I tell no one this information.”
Why was Crowe being so evasive? Her fingers brushed her brooch. He was telling her the truth, the king had certainly told him to keep quiet about the hunt’s destination, but it was as if he was trying to hide something from her. “Castellan, I think the king would certainly understand. This is an emergency, after all. His life is at stake.”
“I follow the king’s command,” he growled, “not that of some Greenie.”
Laren clenched the hilt of her saber with her gauntleted hand. She was so very tired. Tired from the lack of sleep as she and two others pored over F’ryan Coblebay’s puzzle of a letter. Tired, tired, tired of Crowe and his petulant words. Tired of the way everyone viewed Green Riders as useless and lazy, of some lower caste incapable of anything but riding a horse to carry a message. And Crowe was delaying her, and she had no idea why.
“The Eletian. Is he here?”
“I don’t know. I don’t follow his every move.”
Lie!
“Captain, might I suggest that you are overreacting?”
Laren opened her mouth with a retort, but he was just trying to delay her again, this time in argument. “Castellan, what are you hiding? You know it is foolish to lie to me.”
Crowe made the sign of the crescent moon, fingers formed into a C, the sign of the god Aeryc. “Phaw! Don’t use your dirty magic on me. I have nothing to hide.”
Oh, yes, he did, and he was attempting to delay her again. The sound of footsteps running down the length of the throne room stopped an angry response in her throat. Her aide, Patrici, dusty from the road, halted before them.
“Captain, Castellan,” she said panting. “The king—where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Laren said. “Do you carry an important message?”
“The message isn’t important. What I saw is: groundmites. Groundmites east of the Lost Lake.”
Groundmites? So far inside Sacoridia’s borders? Impossible! “Crowe,” Laren said, her voice that of a captain in command. “One last time. Where is the king? If you do not tell me, I’ll make sure that he is made aware of your efforts to delay me.”
Crowe’s knuckles whitened as he clenched his staff. Something flickered behind his eyes as if some inward struggle was going on. “Lost Lake,” he said. “King Zachary is hunting at the Lost Lake.”
Laren turned on her heel, no time to lose. “Patrici, are you up for another ride?”
“Absolutely.”
Laren fleetingly wished for the energy of youth, to not feel any pain, like the pain that racked her body every time she rode or used the brooch too much. She glanced behind her. Crowe watched them leave, his eyes like black darts. They passed through the big double doors of the throne room and found the two guards throwing dice. She shook her head in disgust.
“Sergeant,” she said, “put away your dice and take up your sword. An armed contingent may try to enter the castle and claim the throne.”
“I don’t take orders from any Greenie,” he said, and spat tobacco just short of her boots.
Laren drew herself up and closed in on him, the tips of her boots nearly touching his, her hawklike nose inches from his. “You will take orders from any officer who outranks you, worm. My good friend, Captain Able of the guard, will not be pleased to hear of your unwillingness to take orders.”
The sergeant straightened up. “An armed contingent, you say? Claiming the throne?”
“To arms, Sergeant,” she said, and stalked away, Patrici trotting alongside.
“Ingrate,” Patrici said.
“Patrici, I need you to send a runner to both Captain Able, and to Horse Marshal Martel. There won’t be enough of us Riders to take on those groundmites by ourselves. Have the runner tell Marshal Martel that we need as many mounted soldiers, ready for combat, as possible, and to meet us at the Lost Lake. He will need to know this may mean life or death for King Zachary.”
“Right.”
“One more thing, Patrici, do you still keep that old horn with you?” It was an old battered thing she had picked up secondhand from a bargain shop, and carried in memory of the First Rider, Lilieth Ambrioth, whose horn, it was said, could be heard clear across Sacoridia by any Green Rider. They had all laughed when they first saw Patrici carrying it, and she had been much offended.
“It’s in my room,” Patrici said, with a quizzical expression.
“I’ll need you to play the Rider Call as we ride through the city. Think you can manage that?”
Again, with the confidence of the young, she replied, “Absolutely. I’ll rouse the First Rider if necessary.”
Laren strode toward the stable. If only the First Rider really could raise herself from the ashes of Ages past to ride again.
Alton and Karigan stopped under the shade of a beech tree for a leisurely midday meal. Alton unpacked food obviously meant for a picnic, not extended travel. Freshly baked bread with honey to dip it in, and cake, meat rolls and spiced wine, peaches and plums. It was as good as any picnic Karigan had ever been on. The tension of the morning faded as they made small talk while robins chirped on a branch above. The horses cropped grass nearby.
Alton asked, “When you return to Corsa, what will you do then?”
Karigan caught a drop of peach juice running down her chin. Remembering it was not exactly polite to use her sleeve, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin. She had spent too many days on the road by herself, and such niceties had become less important.
“I will assist my father with the summer trade season.”
Alton lay on his side in the fragrant grass, propped on an elbow, considering the golden peach he rotated in his hand. His hands were large and thick. “You are so certain? You won’t return to Selium or join the Green Riders?”
“I was wrongly cast out of school,” she told him.
“And the messenger service?”
“As for that,” Karigan said, “I’ve told you and the others that I am not a Green Rider, and I never will be.”
Alton shrugged and bit into his peach, and both fell silent again for a time. After a while he said, “I don’t feel much like a Green Rider. My family won’t permit me to ride, but I feel as if I must. I hear hoofbeats in my dreams sometimes, and I wake up in a sweat as if I must go, but I don’t know where. It twists my stomach every time someone else goes out, and all I can do is watch them ride off. I can hardly look the others in the eye. Especially when one of them gets hurt. Or dies.”
Karigan was surprised Alton chose to share his feelings with her, and she was even more surprised by the intensity with which he spoke. She supposed he did not have anyone else to confide in, not even Riders who might not understand the limitations of his status. He would be viewed as shirking his duties or, worse, receiving special treatment. His family certainly wouldn’t be sympathetic to his feelings since they forbade him to ride. Maybe he could talk to Karigan because she was resisting the impulse to be a Green Rider, and she also knew what it was like to hear those hoofbeats.
“What would your family have you do?”
“They would have me ornament courts filled with eligible noblewomen.” He grinned wryly. “I still have to do that on occasion, as at the ball the other night. If my family knew I had spent time with another Green . . . commoner . . . young woman . . .” He stumbled along, not quite sure how to say it without offending her. “They would haul me back to the manor house to teach me more stone craft.”
Now he looked at his big hands, fingers splayed out, palms up. “It might surprise you to know that I possess calluses on these hands. From a young age, I had to learn to cut stone. It’s a family tradition. You wouldn’t believe the hours I spent hammering on granite, my knuckles bleeding until I became proficient enough to hit the drill dead on.” He sighed. “The breach in the D’Yer Wall is a disgrace to my family.”
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