First Rider's Call (12 page)

D’Ivary scowled, then forced a neutral expression on his face.

Zachary leaned forward. “Not so long ago you swore an oath of fealty to me when you took on the mantle of lord-governor. Will you give me your word on your honor that no harm will come to these refugees?”

D’Ivary puffed out his cheeks. “Of course, sire.” He bowed. “I shall abide by your wishes. On my honor.”

Laren fingered her winged horse brooch, reaching out to D’Ivary with her special ability to determine the honesty of his words. The answer came to her like a caress in her mind, and it surprised her.

After D’Ivary departed with his secretary in tow, the king turned his gaze upon her. No longer the stern king, he simply looked a very weary man.

“Well?” he said.

Laren smiled weakly. “He spoke truth. He will not harm those people.”

Zachary raised his eyebrows. “You are certain?”

“It was a clear reading.”

He removed the shiny silver fillet from his brow and passed his fingers through light, amber hair. “Of course. I shouldn’t even have to ask. You’ve never been wrong before. It’s just . . . It’s just that he’s difficult to trust.”

“That goes for the whole cartload of ’em,” Colin said. “The lord-governors.”

The grumpy disgust in his voice made Laren and Zachary—both tired by the long day themselves—laugh.

“Truly,” the king said, as the laughter died down, “as much as those border people disdain governance, they are within our borders. With no lord to speak for them, especially to the likes of Hedric D’Ivary, they’ve only me.”

“And not the sense to appreciate it,” Colin muttered.

Hear, hear,
Laren thought. The border people had no notion of the champion they had in their king. They certainly wouldn’t thank him for it even if they knew. Non-interference was what they desired in their lives—until they needed help, of course. While she agreed with Zachary’s support of them, it would not endear him further to the lord-governors, or to the hardworking folk of the provinces who faithfully paid their taxes and obeyed king’s law.

Before they could speak further, there was a commotion at the throne room entrance. A boy in the livery of the Green Foot burst through the doorway and hustled down the throne room runner. Laren and Zachary exchanged glances, wondering what else could possibly happen this day.

The boy slid to his knees before the king, and Laren grimaced at the clumsy obeisance, but she observed the hint of an amused smile lingering on Zachary’s lips. Perhaps he remembered himself as a boy.

“Rise, lad,” he said.

The boy did so, cheeks pink from running. He was no more than eleven years old with a mop of sandy hair falling over his eyes.

“You’ve a message for King Zachary, Josh?” Laren asked.

The boy looked startled to hear his name issue from her lips. The runners of the Green Foot regarded her as rather imposing, she knew, from discussions with Gerad, their leader.

“Ma’am . . . Captain,” the boy faltered, with a slight tremble to his lower lip. “Yes’m. I’ve a message.”

The Green Foot consisted of fleet youngsters—many of them offspring of the lesser nobility or favored servants—who ran messages about the castle. They were placed here to learn the ways of court, and to attend the castle’s little school, definitely a boon to those with impoverished families. Melry, Laren’s adopted daughter, had run messages for the Green Foot before going off to school in Selium.

Unlike Green Riders, they fulfilled no magical calling to do their work, nor were they gifted with any special abilities. Laren did not oversee their day to day operations, but Gerad reported to her as a formality.

Because the Green Foot did resemble the Riders—they wore messenger green with little winged feet embroidered in gold on their sleeves—and because they were, after all, messengers serving an important function, Laren made sure she knew each youngster’s name, and that they understood their responsibilities and proper conduct in court. She would speak to Gerad later about Josh’s rather graceless demeanor before the king.

Josh turned to the king but looked at his feet. “Word has been passed up from the main gate that Major Everson and Captain Ansible have ridden through the first wall and are on the Winding Way this very moment.”

Laren immediately forgave the boy any impropriety whatsoever, even those as yet uncommitted. The delegation—at least its last remnant—had finally come home.

RETURNINGS

After Josh’s announcement, the sleepy throne room came to life. Servants were beckoned and Josh was sent off to alert the mending wing to prepare for the arrival of the wounded. Word was sent to barracks and stables to prepare as well.

A table was brought out and set with food and drink, and pages came through lighting extra lamps as the last glint of daylight waned in the west side windows. Sperren continued to snooze in his chair, not at all disturbed from his dreams by the commotion. Laren, Zachary, and Colin waited, and for Laren, the waiting was intolerable.

When Ty had ridden ahead with news of the attack on the delegation, he told them all he knew at the time. That had been several weeks ago. Now that the others had made their way home, perhaps holes in his story could be filled in. The waiting would be over.

It would be over, too, for those wanting word of their loved ones. Laren could see in her mind’s eye people gathered at the castle gate, straining to glimpse the return of a husband, sister, father . . . Some would end their evening rejoicing, others in heartbreak.

It had been hard enough, she thought, to see Ty riding onto the castle grounds on Ereal’s Crane. She had known instantly what it meant. And then to hear of Bard, too . . .

She tried to shudder away the dark thoughts, but they clung to her like her very own shadow. It was a shadow that grew darker and heavier with the passing of each Rider under her command, and she wondered if it had been the same for every other captain that had preceded her.

Successions of Green Foot runners brought news of the delegation’s progress. The bulk of it was slowed down by carts carrying the wounded, but Major Everson and Captain Ansible rode ahead with an escort. And, oh yes, the runner told Laren, the Green Rider was with them, too.

At that, Laren took heart and loosed a sigh of relief, much more loudly than intended, and Colin glanced sharply at her. She didn’t care. All her Riders were now accounted for. Karigan had come home.

Not long after the ringing of nine hour, Neff the herald hurried down the runner to inform them that they had at last arrived.

The three entered slowly, for Captain Ansible leaned heavily on a crutch that looked to be fashioned from a stout tree branch. Major Everson and Karigan kept pace with him out of deference. Ansible looked to have aged a hundred years—his skin had gone gray from sickness, and his chin and now-gaunt cheeks were covered by silvery beard bristles. His uniform, such as it was, hung from his shoulders. It was quite a change from the impeccable officer she knew him to be.

To Ansible’s right walked Major Everson, who looked sharp and well fed as only an officer of the light horse could, all shiny buttons and high polished boots. Upon Ty’s return, the king had ordered the cavalry to intercept, aid, and protect the survivors of the delegation. Everson was a grotesque contrast to his haunted companions, beaming from behind an ostentatious mustache as though he were entirely responsible for the deliverance of the delegation.

Karigan walked at Ansible’s left. She wore her hair tightly bound back which made the hollows of her cheeks stand out all the more. Her swordbelt slipped down her hips and she hastily snatched it back up. Every movement of her body suggested exhaustion and she walked with a footsore gait. Her boots, Laren noted, looked worn as if she had done more walking than riding. What of Condor?

Karigan’s entrance held faint resemblance to one she had made a year or so ago. Laren well-remembered
that
whole affair; she could still hear Neff’s voice ringing through the throne room as he announced Karigan’s name—and
title
: “Karigan G’ladheon, sub-chief of Clan G’ladheon!”

Zachary and Laren had exchanged surprised glances, surprised because they thought by this time never to see her here again.

Karigan had been accompanied by an entourage of a cargo master and guards, a secretary, and numerous servants; an entourage large enough to rival any noble’s. Zachary stood—unconsciously, Laren had thought—as Karigan glided down the runner, the sun that slanted through the tall windows shining on long brown hair, worn loose across her shoulders. She was draped in elegant silks of purple and blue, the clan colors.

When finally she had come before the throne, she put her hand to her heart and bowed. Her entourage was two seconds behind in emulating her.

What followed was an unbelievable display of wares—servants bringing before Laren and Zachary bolts of high quality wools dyed a perfect forest green, five different grades of leather, from supple to hard, gold silk and thread for formal uniforms, furs to line winter greatcoats, and the finest linens Laren had ever seen. Servants presented hogsheads filled with buttons and buckles, and samples of silver and iron.

Stevic G’ladheon was following up on his agreement to supply the Green Riders, but previous shipments had gone straight to the quartermaster without much ado, and none had been of this magnitude. It made Laren wonder what lay behind this display. Had Karigan come to flaunt her status as sub-chief and her defiance of the Rider call? If so, such arrogance was not like the Karigan she remembered.

Laren glanced at Zachary and had to do a double take. He looked entranced, not so much by the wares brought before him, but by Karigan, who supervised her servants with gentle authority, using but a nod or a gesture of her hand to direct them. She held herself well, aristocrati cally, a description she would not have appreciated. She had matured a good deal since last they had seen her. Zachary’s expression was inscrutable.

When the display of wares finally ceased, Karigan had said, “Clan G’ladheon makes one final offering.” She turned to the cargo master and started pulling rings off her fingers. “Sevano, these are my official seals and clan rings. Please see that they return home safely.”

The old man’s eyes grew large. “What are ye doing, lass? Those are important—”

She did not stop but removed a medallion from around her neck. “I do not need this either.”

Laren thought the old man was going to faint. “Your authority from the guild as—as sub-chief. What are ye doing?”

Karigan ignored his question and turned to her secretary, who blanched. “Robert, I will leave all receipts, ledgers, and written authorities in your care.”

Addressing all her people she said, “This decision was made over a month ago.” She removed her cloak and handed it to a servant. When she faced Laren and the king again, Laren saw not only the glitter of tears in her eyes, but pinned to her blouse, the gold winged horse brooch which had lain concealed beneath her cloak.

This all had been a carefully executed statement after all, Laren thought. Not a flaunting of what Karigan had become, but a demonstration of what she was giving up.

Karigan then fell to her knee before Zachary, her deep blue skirts pooling on the floor around her. She bowed her head. “I offer my service to the king as a Green Rider.”

Laren’s heart sang with gladness and she saw a flash of triumph in Zachary’s eyes. He stepped down the dais, took her hand, and raised her to her feet. “I accept.”

In Karigan’s face, she saw not only resignation, but relief. Relief of a deed finally done.

After Karigan’s bewildered entourage had left, and before the Chief Rider could come collect Karigan to get her outfitted and situated at Rider barracks, Karigan had handed Laren an envelope with the G’ladheon seal on it.

“From my father,” Karigan said.

When Laren unsealed it much later, she found the message simple and direct:
Take care of her.

Laren was certain, as she looked upon Karigan now, almost an entire year later, that Stevic G’ladheon would be much displeased with her. As the trio neared, she caught more details—the pink healing cut across Karigan’s cheekbone, and what might be mudstains on her shortcoat . . . or dried bloodstains. Was the blood Karigan’s, or that of the enemy? She grimaced, imagining Stevic G’ladheon’s ire.

Yet she could not coddle Karigan no matter her father’s wishes. It was now Karigan’s duty to serve, just as the other Riders must serve, even if it meant facing untold dangers. Even death.

Everson bent to his knee before the king with a flourish. Ansible managed a nod of his head. Karigan’s own obeisance looked so exhausted as to be painful.

“Welcome home, friends,” Zachary said. He had removed his king’s mask, Laren noted, not concealing his concern and genuine joy at their return.