Green Rider

by Kristen Britain

  “My lord?” Marshal Martel queried. “A simple coup?”

  Zachary smiled at the Horse Marshal. “You said yourself that the tombs must store more history than all the repositories of Selium.”

  “I did say that.”

  “There are artifacts in the tombs, Marshal, thousands of years old, that possess powers no longer understood.”

  The Horse Marshal raised his eyebrows. “I see.”

  And now so did Karigan. The Weapons did not simply guard the husks of old heroes and kings and their treasures, but protected objects of power in sacred trust, against those who might misuse them. Like Amilton.

  Brienne picked four Weapons and sent them back to the tombs. Without another word, Fastion walked behind the coffin rest, lifted a tapestry, and pressed his hand against the wall. A new current of air, damp and musty, filled the chapel as a portion of the wall slid open.

  “And I thought I knew the castle fairly well,” Marshal Martel said.

  King Zachary grinned at him. “There is much, much more you don’t know. This is an old corridor once used by priests. It has since been abandoned and very few know of it. When my father brought me here, I was not one to remain idle. I explored the castle and the grounds while my brother played the dandy in court. My restlessness serves me now.”

  He disappeared into the passage. When Karigan passed through, she slipped on the damp floor. Brienne caught her elbow and held her upright.

  “Thanks,” Karigan said.

  The wavering lamplight cast strange shadows against the moist walls. Cobwebs fluttered from the ceiling. How odd the tombs remained so dry when this simple passage dripped.

  “Where are we?” Karigan asked.

  “Near the roof of the earth,” Brienne said.

  Amilton’s announcement still rang in Stevic’s ears when the old woman, Devon, said, “You are no king, but a young whelp who knows nothing about running a country.”

  Amilton looked down on her with distaste. “Have you anything important to say, old hag, or do you simply wish to mock me?”

  “I served your grandmother, your father, and your brother,” she said. “They are not of your ilk. I wonder if Amigast was truly your father at all.”

  Amilton’s hands crackled with magic. Stevic thought he was going to pounce on the old woman, but he threw his head back and laughed instead. “Why should I listen to this? I am king now. What can your small voice do to harm me?”

  Castellan Crowe cleared his throat. “My lord. The Weapons.”

  “What about them?” Amilton said.

  “They follow her. She oversees them.”

  Amilton stepped down from his dais and faced the castellan. “Do you see any Weapons here besides my Jendara?” His hand swept the expanse of the throne room. “My soldiers will root them out, and they will be given the same choice as these others: serve me or die.”

  Crowe licked his lips nervously. “They will not succumb so easily. Th-they will listen to her guidance.” He dipped the tip of his staff in Devon’s direction.

  Now Devon’s laugh echoed in the room. “That is why I seek death.”

  Crowe’s eyes grew round. “If she dies by your hands, my lord, you will turn the other Weapons against you, and bring their wrath upon you.”

  Amilton stalked over to Devon. “Stop laughing, crone. Weapons are eternally loyal to the king of Sacoridia.”

  “You assume much about those who serve you.” Devon’s voice was now quiet and controlled. “The Weapons, as you call us, come from an ancient, ancient order. Yes, we are intensely loyal to our monarchs, and we will freely kill those who threaten them, but we have our own traditions and codes. We are swordmasters and Black Shields, we obey the precepts of our order.”

  “I’ve heard whisperings of Weapon secrets,” Amilton said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You are more superstitious than one might credit you with. It is no reason to go against the rightful king.”

  “The rightful king?” Devon spat. “You are false.”

  Stevic glanced at Amilton’s Weapon. She had moved imperceptibly closer to Amilton, her eyes watching Devon’s every move.

  “Jendara,” Amilton said, “this woman raves.”

  Jendara shook her head. “No, my lord. Everything is as she says. Except about you being false,” she added hastily. “If she dies, the wrath of the Weapons shall be upon us.”

  “Well, well,” Devon said, squinting her eyes in Jendara’s direction. “Amilton’s dog speaks. It was my student once.”

  “I was, old woman,” Jendara said. “Now I am far stronger and faster than you ever were.”

  “Still spiteful because I spoke against you becoming a Weapon?” Devon clucked. “Such a long while ago. Yes, you may be quite the swordmaster. I won’t deny it. But I see my other intuition about you was right. I spoke against you because I believed you hadn’t the character to be a Weapon. After all this time I was right.”

  “You are too caught up in superstitions, old hag.”

  Devon crouched over, then from beneath her robes, she drew a bright sword with a black band about the blade. She held it before her and said, “I seek death. May it be yours before it is mine.”

  Jendara leaped in front of Amilton to shield him. Stevic and Sevano stepped back. Lady Estora watched wide-eyed from her chair.

  Devon’s blade slashed through the air gracefully. Despite her age, she moved with enviable agility and strength. The problem was her sight. Her blade flew far off the mark.

  Jendara laughed and sidestepped away from Devon. “Over here, old hag!”

  Devon looked disconcerted, then moved confidently toward Jendara’s voice.

  As Devon approached, Jendara sprang away. “Over here, old hag!”

  Devon changed course again and again, seeking Jendara’s voice. Jendara moved about the room, luring her away from Amilton and trying to tire her out. A few of the nobles, forgetting their new allegiance to the self-proclaimed king, shouted encouragement and directions to Devon. It only seemed to confuse her as she looked this way and that.

  “You are too slow, old hag,” Jendara said.

  But in saying so, she nearly lost her life. Devon sprang at her, her sword humming through the air.

  Stevic clenched his fists, his body rigid. “Someone should help her.”

  Sevano touched his wrist and shook his head. “You must let them finish it,” he said. “And look around you.”

  The dozen or so soldiers stationed in the throne room watched the proceedings attentively. The two with crossbows had bolts cranked to the ready should anyone make a wrong move.

  “This is between the two Weapons,” Sevano said.

  “But Devon will—”

  “She seeks it,” Sevano said. “This is the way Weapons like to die. They do not want to die in their sleep, they do not want to die of old age. Devon can do the most good by having the Jendara woman kill her or by killing Amilton.”

  Stevic shook his head. It was painful to watch the old woman being goaded around the throne room as if a cloth had been tied about her eyes.

  “Come, old hag,” Jendara taunted, darting from side to side.

  Castellan Crowe banged the butt of his staff on the floor. “This is quite enough,” he said. “We can lock her up if we don’t want to kill her.”

  Devon suddenly veered off course away from Jendara’s taunts. She pivoted and thrust her sword at the unmoving target of Castellan Crowe.

  “Traitor!” she bellowed. She drove her sword through him until the hilt met his breastbone.

  Crowe’s eyes went wide, then rolled to the back of his head. His staff clattered to the stone floor, and he folded over into a clump. Devon jerked her sword from his body. The length of the blade was stained red. The whole of the throne room went silent. One of the soldiers aimed his crossbow at Devon.

  “No,” Jendara told him. She circled around Devon, stepping over Crowe’s body. “Well done, old hag. If he served as a traitor to Zachary, who is to say he wou
ld not betray King Amilton? Hmmm?” Jendara circled around and around, Devon following her with the tip of her sword. “But he was unarmed and unmoving. Can you get me?”

  Devon answered with her sword and this time Jendara met her. Their blades hissed and clanged, their feet barely moving, their swords just extensions of their arms.

  “I see you have not allowed your dotage to enfeeble your reflexes,” Jendara said.

  “Every day I practice.” Devon slashed at Jendara’s neck, but Jendara blocked it.

  All in the throne room stood as silent witnesses to the fight. The nobles had quieted after Crowe’s death, and watched apprehensively, at the same time relieved Amilton’s attention was fixed elsewhere. Indeed, he seemed thoroughly entertained by the spectacle and had resumed his seat in the throne chair. He leaned over the arm, murmuring to Lady Estora and stroking her cheek, his eyes all the while following Jendara and Devon. Estora shuddered at his touch and closed her eyes tight. Whatever words he spoke were for her ears alone.

  Jendara continued to toy with Devon. For her, it was a simple exercise to block and parry the old woman’s moves. Devon, on the other hand, was slowing down, her movements faltering. Her breath rasped loudly.

  “Tiring, are we?” Jendara said. “Put your sword down, and you can rest. King Amilton will see to it you are comfortable.”

  “I will not stop . . .” Devon said between breaths. Her body shook. “I will not stop until one of us dies.”

  “Then your heart will burst first.”

  Devon paused, and a smile crossed her face. “My heart is strong as ever, and more pure than any. You will meet your fate as Saverill did, traitor, and may Aeryc and Aeryon judge you as they will.”

  Devon leaped at Jendara, and Jendara held her sword up ready to fend off another blow, but it did not come. Devon dropped her sword and ran herself onto Jendara’s blade.

  Jendara’s face turned a sickly white beneath all the bruises. She watched as Devon slid slowly off her blade and sank to the floor.

  The silence in the throne room was broken by Amilton’s low laughter. “Well, well, Jendara. The wrath of the Weapons will be upon you.”

  Her expression remained one of disbelief, and now fear. She glanced at Amilton. “They will be upon you, too.”

  “I think not,” he said.

  Before he could say more, a soldier entered through the great oaken doors and trotted down the runner. He bowed before Amilton.

  “My lord, the Lord-Governor Mirwell has arrived.”

  A smile split Amilton’s face. “Excellent. Send him in.”

  The half moon was just discernible through one of the tall windows on the west side of the throne room. Stevic calculated they were into the wee hours of the morning and it seemed the nightmare was no closer to ending. It had only deepened.

  He watched as the stout old lord-governor, looking gray and haggard, limped into the throne room. An officer in scarlet kept to his side, supporting him as he made his slow, awkward way down the runner. They were followed by another soldier with his helm visor down, and someone cloaked entirely in gray. Stevic felt dread as he looked upon that one, for he carried a basket, its bottom stained with blood.

  DECEPTION

  It was as if all in the throne room were frozen in time as Mirwell and his companions halted before Amilton. The nobles, guards, Mirwell, and even Amilton, stood rigid and pillarlike. Only the light and shadows showed life as the flames of oil lamps flinched in a draft as though the dark of night threatened to deny them even that simple golden glow. Stevic wondered how the night could possibly get worse.

  “It is about time you arrived,” Amilton said. “I began to worry our plan had failed.”

  The Mirwellian officer inclined her head. “Everything went as expected, my lord, but the strain of battle on Lord Mirwell delayed us.”

  Mirwell glared at the woman. He tried to shake his arm loose of her, but she clung to him.

  “My lord Mirwell,” she said with an edge to her voice, “you are exhausted.” Then she looked about the throne room, briefly eyeing the corpses of Devon and Crowe, and the nobles huddling together. Her face showed little surprise. “Would it be possible for someone to find a chair for Lord Mirwell?”

  Amilton clapped his hands and a guard came forward. “Get a chair.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” The soldier trotted down the runner and through the double doors.

  Amilton gazed past Mirwell, his eyes settling on the gray cloaked figure. “You have brought something for me, my friend Master Gray One?”

  Stevic held his breath as the gray-cloaked figure took one precise step after another, his booted feet making not a sound on the floor, the hem of his cloak swaying at his ankles. He stopped an arm’s span from Amilton and reached beneath the folds of his cloak. A gleaming circlet of silver clenched in a gray gloved hand emerged. The night, Stevic decided, had gotten worse. Much worse.

  “Finally!” Amilton’s voice rang out in the stock stillness of the throne room. He reached for the fillet eagerly, but stopped himself. An impish smile crossed his face. “I would have my Lady Estora do the honor of crowning me.”

  He walked to her and took her hand. Obediently she stood up and allowed him to lead her to the Gray One. To Stevic, she seemed to be walking in a trance.

  “You have been a good friend, Master Gray One.”Amilton stroked the black stone at his throat as he spoke. “You have brought me gifts that have made me strong and powerful.”

  The gray hood nodded, and the gloved hand held the crown out so it shone like a ring of light.

  “My lady Estora,” Amilton said, “would you do me the honor?”

  Lady Estora blinked as if just waking up. She glanced at the Gray One, then at the crown, and back to Amilton.

  “No.” Her voice was so quiet that Stevic had to strain to hear her.

  “What?”Amilton’s brows drew together, his anger aroused once again. He was as volatile as a blacksmith’s forge.

  Lady Estora lifted her chin defiantly and in a louder and stronger voice, she said, “No. I’d sooner spit on you than crown you. You will never be the king your father or brother was.”

  Amilton’s fist flung out, and Lady Estora dropped to her hands and knees with a cry. Mirwell’s cold officer watched impassively, and the lord-governor leered as if enjoying some private joke. They were monsters, the lot of them.

  Stevic schooled himself to silence, to still his outrage and frustration at Amilton’s cruelty. He was helpless against the magic of Amilton Hillander, helpless to stop him.

  As a clan chief and one of the leading merchants of Sacoridia, powerlessness was not something Stevic G’ladheon was accustomed to. He had always faced problems quickly and decisively, whether it was averting a clan feud by intervening with tact and a few well-chosen words, or defending cargo trains from thieves. Inaction, in his mind, equated disaster. This time, however, the stakes went far beyond guarding cargo and even his own life. He must exercise restraint and patience, for action could mean disaster.

  Yet, he was not helpless to render aid and he crept cautiously to the woman huddled on the floor hiding her face with her arm. He knelt beside her and took her face into his hands. Her lip bled, her fair features would be bruised, but nothing worse, though this was likely the worst treatment she had ever received in her whole life.

  “Can you stand?” he whispered.

  His estimation of the woman surged as she steeled herself and nodded. Not a single tear threatened to spill from her eyes, though he could feel the trembling of her body as he helped her rise.

  Amilton seized the fillet from the Gray One himself and held it high above his head for all to see. “I am king!” He walked among the cowering nobles, displaying the crown so there was no mistaking it.

  “It is my birthright,” he said. “I would have been king if my brother had not usurped me.” He slowly lowered the crown onto his head. “Aeryc and Aeryon as my witnesses, I name myself King of Sacoridia.”

 
Silence. Silence and dread as palpable as the granite walls that surrounded them.

  Amilton glared at the nobles, prompting them to clap with great enthusiasm.

  “You had better clap,” Stevic whispered to Lady Estora.

  “I cannot applaud for . . . for that,” she said, gesturing at Amilton.

  “I should not like to see him get any angrier with you,” Stevic said. She reluctantly joined in.

  Amilton strutted around and among the nobles, ensuring that each person got a good look at him with the crown on. He then climbed up onto the dais and stood tall and straight. “My dear Lord Mirwell,” he said, “you have served me faithfully. I grant you, as you requested, the lands comprising Adolind and L’Petrie Provinces.”

  Lord Nethan L’Petrie emitted a strangled cry. Mirwell’s own response was a throaty chuckle.

  “Now we are truly doomed,” Sevano whispered to Stevic.

  It was one outrage after another, Stevic thought.

  Amilton seemed pleased with himself for bestowing such a gift. He was likely even more pleased he possessed the power to do so.

  “Master Gray One,” he said, “I see you have brought me yet another gift. I should have liked to have heard my brother’s screams as he died, but you have done well.”

  The Gray One held out the basket and a hush fell over the throne room. Lady Estora groaned beside Stevic. “All hope is truly lost.”

  Mirwell laughed.

  Amilton snapped his head at him. “What is it?”

  “Go ahead,” Mirwell said. “Look in the basket. The Gray One carried it all this way for you.”

  Amilton smiled tentatively. He unclasped the basket’s fastener and opened the lid. He reached inside.

  Lady Estora pressed her face into Stevic’s shoulder. “I can’t bear to look. I just can’t.”

  Stevic could not either. It gets worse and worse, he thought. But he caught an amused gleam in the Mirwellian officer’s eye as she exchanged glances with the soldier behind her, and such a curious expression crossed Amilton’s face, that Stevic found he could not avert his gaze.