First Rider's Call (45 page)

SECOND EMPIRE

“And that is the last of it,”Sergeant Westley Uxton said, lamplight flickering across his face. “I do not know if the young lord lives or is dead, but I
do
know the forest lives.”

“Certainly that’s not the same story you gave the king,” Madrene said.

Uxton looked indignant. “Of course not. I told him that Lord Alton
fell,
but I otherwise did keep as close to the truth as possible.”

Leave it to Madrene, so consumed with secrecy to protect her own hide, Weldon Spurlock thought, to overlook the two pieces of excellent news Uxton had brought them. Alton D’Yer was no longer a threat, and Blackveil was alive. The question was, what to do with the information. Bide their time till there was some more definite communication from the forest? For so long, the society of the Second Empire had been geared toward retaining its secrecy that now, faced with the actual awakening of the forest, they were a bit stymied as to how to proceed. Maybe there’d be some sign . . .

“Well done, Sergeant,” Spurlock said.

Uxton nodded. “Wasn’t easy to do,” he murmured.

The group stood in silence in the musty, dark room. These abandoned rooms were useful for keeping out of sight of anyone curious enough to stick their nose where it did not belong, but as much as he didn’t like to admit it, the place was distinctly creepy. Sometimes he thought he heard muttering, or caught sight of movement at the edge of his lamplight as he made his way through the abandoned corridors. Old structures were like that, he had to remind himself, full of odd noises like chatty old women.

No doubt water dripping somewhere,
he thought.
Or the echo of my own footfalls down empty corridors.

As for the movements? A trick of light and shadow, or maybe a rodent scurrying by.

The worst sensation, however, was a palpable touch on his skin, like cool fingers brushing him. Purely imagination, of course, wrought by primal fears of dark, abandoned places. It made him shudder all the same.

“I have one other item to address before we part,” Spurlock said, finding comfort in his own voice, “and that is what to do about Galadheon.”

“Nothing,” Robbs the blacksmith said. “That line will bring us nothing but grief.” The others echoed their agreement.

“I tend to see it your way,” Spurlock said. “Through the records in my care, one can see this line has long forgotten its past, and indeed, there are even gaps in our own vigilance. For many a year, the line remained as quiet and ignorant fisherfolk on Black Island, until recently with the merchanting success and clanship of Stevic G’ladheon.

“Then, surprise of all surprises, his daughter comes here to the castle grounds as a Green Rider.”

There was hissing and other noises of disparagement toward those who had helped defeat their ancestors.

“While our brothers and sisters in Corsa have determined the father as too rash and independent-minded for our group, they believed the daughter might prove otherwise. From my own observation, this hasn’t been the case. She is much like the father and has shown herself very loyal to the king.”

Spurlock recalled the scene in the king’s study, the way the sun shone on Karigan G’ladheon’s face, and the expression of the king when they locked gazes. More than just loyalty there, he thought, and perhaps something worth exploiting in the future. He tucked that bit of information to the back of his mind for later use.

“She is,” he continued, “entirely unsuited for our society.”

“I’m surprised we even considered her,” Madrene said. “Hers is a line much cursed.”

Uxton’s booming laugh echoed down the corridor. “So cursed her father is one of the richest men in Sacoridia!”

Madrene scowled. “You know what I mean. Much cursed by us.”

Uxton rolled his eyes. “Of course, Madrene. Galadheon is much cursed by us.”

“I will continue my vigil on her,” Spurlock said, “but I do not consider her a threat, or her father, but should things change, we and our sect in Corsa should be set to eliminate any threat. In the meantime, so long as Clan G’ladheon is ignorant of its heritage, no harm should come to them.”

“Why not kill them now, like Lord Alton?” Robbs asked. “Why wait for something to happen?”

Spurlock nodded. “A good question, but we dare not act prematurely. What if we open ourselves to detection by a moment of carelessness? Wouldn’t the murders of Stevic G’ladheon and his heir draw unwanted attention? I choose caution; to not make any moves unless warranted. Are there further objections?”

No one spoke. Spurlock felt cold hands around his neck and heard a muttering near his ear.

Five hells!
His gut froze as the cold passed through it. He’d be glad to get out of here.

“Let us end then. Praise be to Mornhavon.”

“Praise be to Mornhavon,”
they all chanted.

They raised their hands high, exposing the tattoos on their palms to the light of their lamps, and Spurlock led the closing in the Imperial tongue:
“Leo diam frante clios . . .”

Mostly unaware of the ghostly presences that swept in and around them in great agitation, Second Empire finished its meeting in ancient ritual.

WATCH HILL

The town of Childrey lay a half day’s ride east of Sacor City. Because of Karigan’s late start, she’d probably spend the night in Childrey, or beneath the stars somewhere along the road on her return trip.

As she had guessed, Condor was just as eager as she to take to the road, and as he stretched his legs in a soothing, rocking canter, her concerns flowed from her shoulders with the passing of each mile, leaving her in a state of contentment.

It was a truly fine day with a sky overhead the shade of a robin’s egg. Woodlands alternated with blueberry barrens, and she waved to laborers raking in the last of the season’s crop. They shouted back cheery greetings.

There were a couple of villages she and Condor passed through, with children watching from the side of the road to see the king’s messenger. More merry greetings were exchanged, and she was asked to pass on good tidings to King Zachary.

Once outside the second village, she nudged Condor back into his pleasant canter, and with a switch of his tail, they were off.

Feeling cleansed and revitalized, Karigan laughed at the breeze against her face and the wide open freedom of the ride. It had been truly too long since she’d been off castle grounds. Now she drank in the deep greens of grasses and forest, and the wavering yellow and white flowers of late summer along the road. Some plants, spent by so much summer splendor, were already turned gold and red with the shortening days.

Later, when she slowed Condor to a walk to cool off, a rocky mount called Watch Hill rose above the trees. From a distance it often took on a bluish aspect, especially at sunset. Blueberry barrens left to grow wild long ago cloaked its slopes. Its summit was bald granite except for scraggly vegetation that clung tenaciously in protected crevices and pockets of gravelly soil.

The road skirted the base of Watch Hill, and then continued steadily eastward. As she passed into the hill’s shadow, she felt a strange tug on her brooch, a resonance that called on her to climb the mount. Spooked, Karigan kicked Condor into a canter to put Watch Hill behind them. She wasn’t about to let anything untoward spoil her pleasant ride.

The shadows had grown long by the time Condor’s hooves pounded over the bridge that crossed the brook bounding Childrey.

Childrey was a prosperous little town, home to several gentlemen farmers and landowners. Some profited from the lumbering business that took place north and west, while others were merchants who specialized in crossing the Wingsong Mountains to do business with the eastern provinces.

Upon her arrival at the mayoral offices off the town green, she was treated courteously by the mayor’s servants. This was her third errand to Childrey, and Lord-Mayor Gilbradney was an ardent supporter of King Zachary.

The mayor and his staff offered her every creature comfort possible, and she was not at all disappointed when he invited her to his table for a supper of wine-roasted grouse and bowls piled high with the mushrooms that were so plentiful this time of year. There were slabs of sharp cheese, and bread just pulled from the ovens. Her cup was never empty of apple wine, and dish after dish was passed her way.

It was over a heap of blueberry-rhubarb pie swimming in warm clotted cream that Lord-Mayor Gilbradney broached a subject that was not just simple table conversation.

“Rider,” he said, “one hears all manner of strange tales emanating from across the country. As you know, we’ve a good deal of commerce here for an inland town.” Here he smiled knowing her own family’s business based on the shore of Corsa Harbor. “With our commerce, there are those who have traveled far and wide. Do you know the tales I speak of?”

The others at the table, the mayor’s wife and some town officials, waited intently for Karigan’s reply.

“I believe I do,” she said. “As you may guess, those tales have also reached the king’s ear.”

Gilbradney shifted uncomfortably. “Is there truth in them?”

Karigan nodded slowly. “Of course, I’m not sure which ones you’ve heard, but yes, some have truth in them. But more likely than not, most are probably exaggerated beyond recognition.”

“So I suspect, as well. Tell me, Rider, do you know the cause of these oddities?”

Karigan wasn’t sure how much to reveal. This was one of the hardest aspects of representing the kingdom—everything coming from her mouth would be taken as the official word of the king.

“No decisive conclusions have yet been reached,” she said carefully, “but the king is aware of the oddities, and we are being vigilant. Have you anything to report?”

The mayor and his colleagues seemed delighted to tell her of the tales they had heard. Some were familiar, some were not. She filed the latter away for retrieval later, when she reported back to Mara and the king.