Green Rider

by Kristen Britain

  “Do they malign my name?” Amilton asked.

  “Yes, my lord,” the soldier said. “They wish to abolish rule by a monarch completely. This they shout into the night, and their leader attracts an audience with her speeches.”

  The crackling on Amilton’s hands ceased, and he stroked his mustache. “You have archers up on the walls, don’t you, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then let them practice their aim.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The soldier bowed and left the throne room at a trot.

  Ignoring Jendara, Amilton’s eyes fastened on the small group of nobles still standing before him. “Well, well. If my eyes do not deceive me.”

  He walked among them and circled the tall blonde in black, looking her up and down. “Lady Estora, how good to see you again.”

  Jendara watched as Amilton took the woman’s pale hand in his and kissed it. The woman looked straight ahead, coolly ignoring him.

  “You are beautiful as ever, my lady,” Amilton said. His other hand trailed along her cheek and down her neck.

  Jendara’s knuckles whitened in clenched fists. It had always been this way, he looking at others than she.

  “My lady,” Amilton said in soft tones, as his face came unbearably close to the woman’s. “My dear, dear heir of Coutre Province, I have some interesting ideas for you.”

  Karigan was falling, falling from the sky, and she jerked convulsively to stop herself.

  She opened her eyes to the soft glow of a single candle. She had been asleep or unconscious, and lay on stone. The hard, cold surface made her back ache.

  The candle did little to reveal the room she was in. It was stone, like everywhere else in the castle, and though she could not discern dimensions, she sensed the walls to be close and the space vaultlike. The candlelight glinted on glass—vials and jars on a shelf. The room smelled faintly of herbs and mustiness; the air was thick as if it had been closed up for some time.

  The candlelight splayed across the ceiling. Glyphs and runes were carved there, so ancient they surpassed the old Sacoridian language. Crudely wrought images of Aeryc and Aeryon were also carved there, and others. One was of a creature—part man, part bird—the god Westrion who escorted souls to the stars; and another was of his great steed, Salvistar, the harbinger of strife and battle.

  She lifted her head up to look around some more, but it throbbed and she moaned. “Where am I?”

  “The preparation room,” someone said.

  Karigan’s heart skipped a beat. “Who’s there?”

  The disembodied hands returned, this time accompanied by a disembodied face with familiar, stony features aglow in the candlelight.

  “Fastion!”

  The Weapon, who had so often guarded her door at Rider barracks, drew closer and she could make out the outlines of his broad frame. His black uniform had created the illusion of disembodiment.

  “You are awake, then,” he said.

  “Yes. What do you mean this is a preparation room?”

  “It is for the dead,” he said. “It is here the royal death surgeons prepare the bodies of kings, queens, and the special ones chosen to reside in the Hall of Kings and Queens, or along Heroes Avenue. It is here they open the body from chin—” He put his finger to his chin and drew a line with it down to his stomach. “—to the gut so that the soul may escape the body and float to the heavens. It is an ancient rite.”

  Karigan sat up, heart pounding. Suddenly she feared Fastion. Here she was, laid out on the funerary slab of royalty, where they were embalmed and prepared for the grave. What did Fastion intend?

  “Easy,” Fastion said, “or you are going to start bleeding again.” Then he must have recognized her fear, for he crossed his arms and said, “If I planned to prepare you for death, I wouldn’t have bound up that sword wound, and your soul would have been in the heavens long ago.”

  Karigan tentatively touched her side where Jendara’s blade had cut her. It was indeed bound with linens.

  “Lots of bandages here,” Fastion said.

  “For wrapping the dead.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m sorry I mistrusted you, but it has been a very long day, and this is strange. . . .”

  “It is strange for me, too. This room has . . . memories for me.” Fastion’s eyes roamed the room as if in search of images of the past. “Before I became a Weapon for King Zachary, I was a tomb guard. I guarded King Amigast in his death, and watched over the surgeons lest they did something to damage him or impair his soul. As I said, the rites are ancient.”

  “I would like to get off this slab,” Karigan said. It was too much.

  Fastion put his hand on her shoulder and pressed her back. “I realize how uncomfortable this must be, but you have to rest while you can. You seem weak, and on more than account of blood loss. We can talk while you recover. But first, I need to know if you have news of the king.”

  “He lives.”

  Joy crossed Fastion’s normally impassive face, and any doubt of his intentions faded completely. “Then there is hope,” he said.

  Karigan told him of the day’s events, and about her purpose at the castle. “I must return to them and tell them what I’ve seen. My own father is trapped in the throne room with Amilton and Jendara.”

  “The traitor!” Fastion broke in with vehemence. “I would have taken her on in the corridor, but I had my arms full with you.”

  “Sorry,” Karigan said.

  “Do not apologize. I’m glad I could help after what you have told me. Killing Jendara would have brought me some satisfaction, but it would have raised an alarm and ruined all hope. You see, I’ve been trying to reach the tombs. I expect to find others there, more Weapons. I am hoping they have been forgotten by Amilton, or they have been able to resist attacks by his forces.”

  “How many do you think there are?” Karigan asked.

  “Perhaps as many as twenty, but I would guess fewer.As you know, one Weapon is worth four or more ordinary soldiers.”

  “Yes,” Karigan said. “I do know.”

  Fastion looked pleased. “We may not possess Greenie magics, but we have our own skills. We have secrets.”

  Karigan lay in silence. The cold of the slab was getting to her, as was the closeness of the room. There was no telling how much time had been lost, but half the candle had dripped away as they spoke.

  “Fastion,” she said, “I’ve got to get back to the king and the others to let them know what I learned.”

  “Can you stand?”

  She dropped her legs over the slab. Her head throbbed mightily. She nearly fell back on the slab.

  “A little at a time,” Fastion said.

  He produced some dried meat and water left over from his own supper. It had been some time since midday when Karigan had sat with Alton beneath the sun at their picnic. Would she ever see the sun again? The food improved her spirits considerably, and she felt much stronger. Now she could stand, though she had to hold onto the slab at first to keep steady.

  “I will guide you out,” Fastion said. “You must tell the king when you see him to remember the Heroes Portal. He must have walked those paths when a boy. His grandmother would have seen to it. I will try to reach the tombs and assemble all the Weapons I can. There, on Heroes Avenue, we shall meet you and the king.”

  “The tombs . . . ?”

  “Yes.”

  Karigan had a vague suspicion she would never truly extricate herself from dealings with the dead. Ghosts, killings, and now tombs.

  Fastion led Karigan through black corridors and a series of rooms, then down more corridors. He relied only on a single candle to light the way.

  “Why is it so dark here?” Karigan asked. “Isn’t this part of the castle used?”

  “No longer,” the Weapon said. “This section could house hundreds, and it once did. Troops, mostly, were garrisoned here in more restless days.”

  “A very long time ago, then.”

>   “Yes. We Weapons know it all, all the corridors and rooms. We must. Quite a lot of history back here. There are even some Green Rider relics. I keep meaning to tell Captain Mapstone, but I get tied up in my duties and forget.”

  The route Fastion took seemed like that of an endless cave or maze. When one candle melted down, he lit another. Their footsteps were hollow on the stone-flagged floor. Time seemed not to exist in this netherworld.

  They passed numerous doors. Motheaten tapestries rustled on the walls as they walked by, and their feet stirred up dust. They caught the glow of a rat’s eye in the candlelight as it scurried across the corridor.

  “The servants really ought to clean down here,” Fastion muttered.

  Beside the tapestries, rusted arms and shields hung on the walls. The shields bore the devices of regiments: the evergreen, the sea dog, the wild rose, the catamount, the black bear, and the eagle. One shield of green featured the gold winged horse.

  “So the Green Riders were once garrisoned with the rest of the militia,” Karigan said.

  “At war time, yes. Green Riders served not only as couriers, but in other capacities, such as light cavalry. There are other things that are not disclosed in the history books, so I can only guess.”

  Karigan could, too. Capacities like the one Beryl Spencer served in. “You sound like a historian,” she said.

  Fastion glanced at her with a smile. “I am versed in more than weaponry skills.”

  Karigan smiled back, abashed.

  Finally, Fastion stopped at a heavy door bound in iron. “This opens into the main courtyard,” he said, “so you must take care. We’re some couple hundred yards from the main entrance and the gates. There are apt to be soldiers all about, but not directly guarding this door. It is somewhat . . . obscure.”

  He turned and pulled on a huge iron ring, and if Karigan was expecting the hinges to creak and shriek with age, she was to be disappointed, for someone had made a point of oiling them.

  Fresh night air rolled into the corridor, and Karigan breathed deeply, finally feeling she was going to be freed of the tomblike atmosphere of the castle.

  “I would use your . . . er . . . ability,” Fastion said, “to get across the courtyard. Have you a horse?”

  “He’s down in the city,” she said.

  “Good. Remember, the Heroes Portal. The king should remember it. May Aeryc and Aeryon guide you.”

  “And you,” Karigan said.

  With some regret, she touched her brooch and stepped out into the night. The door closed shut behind her, and she was on her own. Shrubbery concealed the doorway, and she peered around it. Soldiers milled around, walking here and there to whatever business called them to duty at this late hour.

  There was not enough light to reveal her, and she darted across the courtyard at a trot to the inner wall. She hugged it until she neared the guardhouse and gate. Someone barked orders to those standing on the wall, but she was not going to wait around to find out what those orders were about.

  She watched the sentries cross paths, gauged where the shadows were deepest beneath the portcullis, and she ran. As her feet thudded on the draw bridge, she heard the command, “Ready arrows!”

  “Oh, no,” she groaned.

  Across the moat, the Anti-Monarchy Society shouted slogans and shook fists. A crowd had assembled to watch.

  “Find your sights, wait for my mark,” the soldier commanded.

  Karigan pounded across the bridge and headed straight for the Anti-Monarchy Society. She could imagine the archers, poised between the crenellations atop the wall, holding their bowstrings taut. It would be slaughter. The Anti-Monarchy Society was grouped at an easy arrow’s flight from the wall, and the streetlamps made them visible targets.

  Karigan dropped her invisibility as she charged them and no few mouths fell open.

  “Run!” she shouted. “They’re going to—”

  “Loose arrows!” The command rang through the night.

  Arrows rained from the sky, impaling members of the Anti-Monarchy Society and the crowd, skidding along the paving stones of the street, or sticking in the ground. Screams and cries surrounded Karigan. The terrified living stampeded the wounded and dead. Karigan was jostled from every side by the panicked onrush of people.

  And again, the command rang out: “Loose arrows!”

  People dropped on either side of Karigan. An arrow skimmed her shoulder. When she came to the first building beyond the castle wall, she veered around it to safety. A dozen or so other people had done likewise, Lorilie Dorran among them. She was on the ground, an arrow jammed in her thigh. She gasped in pain. Two of her followers hovered solicitously over her.

  “King Zachary would never have done this,” Lorilie said.

  Karigan strode over to her. Her own side was stinging from her desperate run. When her shadow fell across Lorilie, the charismatic leader of the Anti-Monarchy Society looked up at her.

  “Perhaps you should support King Zachary rather than malign him,” Karigan said. “What you’ve got now is a real tyrant claiming the throne.”

  Lorilie squinted through her pain. “I remember you, sister. North. You were there. You . . . you are a Green Rider?”

  Karigan shook her head. “I am not your sister, nor am I a Green Rider.”

  “All monarchy is tyranny.”

  Karigan glanced over her shoulder at the bodies bristled with arrows lying in the street. Some people were trying to drag themselves along, others knelt on the ground wailing.

  “Is this worth it?” Karigan asked her, gesturing at the wounded and dead.

  “Yes,” Lorilie whispered fiercely. “Yes. They died for me; they died for the cause. Their sacrifice will only strengthen it.”

  The woman was despicable. “Believe what you will, then.” Karigan whirled around and ran, disappearing into the shadows as she went.

  HEROES AVENUE

  Karigan rode Condor through the city, vanishing only if she saw Mirwellians or mercenaries, but otherwise heedless of others who might see her. Some in the city spoke of seeing the restless spirit of the First Rider rush by on her fiery steed. The First Rider, they said, was angered by the overthrow of King Zachary. Some heard only pounding hooves and a passing breeze. Others saw the Rider’s ghostly figure, or a streak of green.

  Karigan blew through the final gates of the city, riding across the countryside like a demon until she reached the thicket of woods where she had left the others. As she pulled up on the reins, a single figure stood there, cloaked and hooded in gray.

  “No!” Karigan cried. The Shadow Man! If he was here, that meant the others must be in danger. She drew the king’s sword and ran Condor straight at the figure. The Shadow Man jumped to the side just in time.

  Karigan reined Condor around for another pass, but the figure cried out, “Karigan! Stop! It’s me.” Captain Mapstone pulled back the hood, revealing her bandaged head.

  Karigan dismounted, relieved but weary, and led Condor toward her.

  “I’m sorry,” Captain Mapstone said. “I wasn’t expecting you just then. Connly found this cloak in the city while you were gone, and we thought it might prove useful for Beryl’s plan.”

  The others emerged from the woods.

  “At least we know it works,” Beryl said.

  The king looked Karigan up and down. “You’ve been hurt,” he said. He took her elbow apprehensively.

  Karigan then realized she was on her knees. A line of blood had seeped through Fastion’s bandage. Helping hands lifted her to her feet, and led her into the woods.

  “It looks worse than it is,” she said. “It’s the brooch. . . . I’m exhausted.”

  The mender pushed between Captain Mapstone and the king. “I’ll be the judge of that,” she said.

  They sat Karigan down on a blanket, allowing her to lean against the trunk of a tree. The mender checked her wound with gentle hands.

  “I have a terrible headache from the brooch,” Karigan said.

&nbs
p; “I’ve roots for you that should help the pain.” The mender rebandaged the wound and said, “It is not deep, but if you keep riding around the countryside, it won’t knit together.”

  “Couldn’t help it,” Karigan said.

  The mender rolled her eyes. “You Riders are all alike. You make the worst patients. Next to other menders, of course.” Then she gave Captain Mapstone a stern look. “I know you have questions to ask, but she is in need of rest. Don’t push her.”

  Karigan eased herself against the tree trunk, glad at least, to be visible and among friends again.

  “Do you feel able to talk?” the king asked. His eyes were wide with concern as he gazed down at her.

  I must look beyond redemption, she thought with some amusement. The exertion of battle and having walked through those old, dusty castle corridors made a hot bath seem a heavenly dream. “I have a lot to report,” she said.

  The king and captain glanced at one another, then beckoned Horse Marshal Martel, Beryl Spencer, and Connly over. They sat in a semicircle about Karigan as she told them, as briefly as possible, of her adventures. When she described her encounter with Mel, Captain Mapstone’s face fell and she looked away. She seemed little relieved when Karigan told her Mel was safe when she last saw her.

  “The castle . . . Rider barracks is no place for a child to grow up,” Captain Mapstone said.

  Beryl placed her hand on the captain’s shoulder. “She loves you, and that’s what matters.”

  Karigan told of Prince Amilton and how he used magic to torture, kill, and coerce the nobles. “Magic surrounded his hands and . . . and it was like what the Eletian used.” On me, she did not add. “My father was in the throne room with the others. He seemed fine, but I didn’t dare talk to him.”

  She recounted her narrow escape from Jendara and how she received the wound. She told of Fastion’s help.

  “The Heroes Portal,” Zachary murmured. “I remember. Yes, it’s perfect. Good old Fastion! His years as a tomb guard have served him, and served us, well.”