She’d been training with Drent before she was officially named a swordmaster initiate, but so far there was little difference in her current training from the hammerings she received before, except for the gradual introduction of new moves and more emphasis on form. A swordmaster did not just fight for survival, but made an art of it. Being a swordmaster was more than mere fighting: it was grace, it was stealth and power, it was precision.
Karigan did not feel like any of those things, when once again, her practice partner, Flogger, whacked her across the buttocks with the flat of his wooden practice sword and sent her stumbling from the muddy practice ring. Stepping out of the ring was an automatic kill point, and she’d lost count of how many times she had been “killed” during the day’s session.
She glowered, rubbing her numb behind, while Flogger grinned at her. He’d had it in for her for months now, after she embarrassed him a time or two in the fall. Now, however, she was prohibited from employing the techniques she used before, which some would call tricks. Swordmaster initiate training, she was informed by Drent, was about the art of the sword, not tricks.
“What are you waiting for Greenie?”
Drent had crept up from behind so silently his voice made her jump. She hastened back into the small practice ring, her boots sucking in the mud.
“I want to see the whole sequence from the beginning, without pause,” Drent said, his voice one of menacing delight. He smiled, and with his thick features, it was a gruesome thing. “The Greenie will do the forms, and Flogger will counter.”
Karigan’s heart sank. She’d be stuck to the prescribed sequence, while Flogger could vary his technique as he wished in an effort to throw her off. Others paused their bouts to watch, as they often did. Karigan’s humiliation made for good sport.
They tapped swords and Flogger came at her with a simple thrust. The first form was called Aspen Leaf, in which Karigan traced the shape of an aspen leaf through the air with speed and force, meeting Flogger’s sword with a solid clank and pushing it aside; followed by crosswise slashes that represented the veins of the leaf, again swiftly met by Flogger.
Clack! Clack! Clack!
In a real fight with real swords, Aspen Leaf could slice up an opponent in a dozen different ways.
Karigan flowed into Crayman’s Circle and Snake Gliding, and Flogger, who knew the routine, turned her thrusts away and parried her slashes. They developed a rhythm so that the sequence became a dance, but she had to remain alert because she could become lost in it, oblivious to all else, only to have her opponent seize the opportunity to pull an unexpected move that caught her off guard.
So far Flogger remained steady on the rhythm, not pulling any of his usual stunts, his form impeccable. For some reason he was drawing out the sequence instead of securing a rapid victory.
Must be showing off for Drent, she thought. But even when Drent watched, Flogger usually tried to defeat her as quickly as possible. Perhaps there was someone else among the onlookers he wanted to impress.
And then it came, a swipe at her legs that opposed the rhythm they’d established.
Because Karigan, as a smaller, less muscular opponent, had little hope of defeating Flogger with sheer force, she’d been trained to use an adversary’s own power against him, and here she did so, hopping out of the way and sweeping her blade behind his and slamming it out of his hands. The wooden practice sword flew into the crowd while Flogger looked after it in disbelief. There was some scattered clapping among the onlookers.
“Well, well,” Drent said, and it was all he said before moving on to another pair of trainees.
Sweat streamed down Karigan’s face, and she was splattered and soaked to the skin with mud and bruised to the bone as usual, but she could not help but feel triumphant.
Her triumph lasted only as long as it took Flogger to retrieve his practice sword, a scowl on his face.
They tapped swords to begin again.
“That’s the last time you’ll embarrass me in front of the king, Greenie,” Flogger said.
“King?”
“Didn’t see him, eh?”
No, she hadn’t. She glanced across the practice field searching for him, but most of the audience had already dispersed.
THWACK!
“Ow!” Karigan cried, grasping her forearm as her practice sword tumbled to the ground. Jolts of pain shot between her wrist and elbow. “That wasn’t fair!”
“Not fair? We tapped swords. You weren’t paying attention.”
As much as she hated to admit it, Flogger was right, but it was hard not to be distracted by thoughts of King Zachary. Had he enjoyed watching her bout? How she moved? She had not seen him since her return.
She cleared her throat and shook her hand out when she realized she was just standing there smiling foolishly, but it was more than exertion that left a blush on her cheeks.
OF SHADOWS AND ETIQUETTE
“There was a brand on his chest,” Laren said, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. The shadows of her quarters closed in on her as she remembered, and she shuddered.
“Brand?” Elgin asked. He helped her slip into her greatcoat.
Laren closed her eyes and only saw Osric’s decaying, abused body before her on the slab of the death surgeons. They did what they could to clean him up, and she’d seen much worse, but it was still no simple thing to view the corpse of one her Riders cut down in his prime, his body defiled. Elgin placed his hand on her shoulder, and she knew he understood.
“It was a crude brand,” Laren said, “but distinct—a lion mauling a skull.”
Elgin scrunched his eyebrows together. “I thought Second Empire used a dead tree as their symbol.”
Laren fastened the buttons of her coat. “They do, but the historians think this brand is very close to a symbol used by Mornhavon the Black’s elite regiment, the Lions. Birch is not only mocking us, but informing us he’s raising a superior force, harkening back to the days of the Long War.”
She opened the door and squinted in the wash of sunlight that pushed the shadows to the far corners of her quarters.
“The death surgeons think,” she continued, “Osric was branded after death.”
“Thank the gods for small mercies,” Elgin muttered.
“There was no mercy when those murderers turned the blade in his back,” Laren replied. “Cowards. Knifing him from behind like that. Birch may think he’s clever sending us his message, but he’s also shown us he lacks honor.”
“Villains often do,” Elgin said.
Sunshine poured down on Laren when she stepped from her doorway onto the thawing earth. The air was chill, and smelled fresh and clean, of new beginnings. It was her cue to shake off darkness. She could not afford to traverse the shadows for too long when there was work to be done and so many Riders, living, breathing Riders, depended on her leadership.
Unfortunately, leadership tended to translate to “eligible for endless meetings,” and here she was on her way to yet another, albeit important, one. Zachary was bent on sending Sacoridians with the Eletians into Blackveil, and it was time to decide what and who would comprise their contingent.
“So tell me,” Laren said as she started down the path, careful to avoid puddles and icy patches, “how it goes for you. Are you settling in?” Often, it was only in moments like this, between meetings, that she was able to catch up on the doings of her Riders.
“I am very comfortable in the Rider wing,” Elgin said. “And my girls and Bucket are content as well, though Hep has a thing or two to say about the racket Bucket makes at feeding time.”
Laren grinned. “And what do you make of my new Riders?”
“Eager to learn and do,” Elgin said. “Just as they always are.”
She nodded, then paused at the sound of shouting from the vicinity of the practice field. She pivoted and saw there was a goodly collection of onlookers crowded together, no doubt watching a bout. It was not unusual, but then she recalled this was the time Ka
rigan was scheduled for swordmaster initiate training. On a hunch she started toward the practice field, the opposite direction in which she’d been heading.
“Where are you going?” Elgin said. “What about your meeting?”
“It doesn’t start till eleven hour. I have a little time to spare.”
Elgin followed her across the soggy grounds to the practice field. There was still plenty of snow piled up in shady spots in the lee of the castle and beneath trees, but the practice field was a churned up mire, the small rings used for swordplay particularly mucky.
She smiled when she reached the edge of the crowd, for it was Karigan’s swift and lithe form against the strength of a huge fellow. They clashed through a sequence of moves that was far beyond Laren’s own training, and though Karigan’s opponent’s arms and chest bulged with muscles, it did not diminish his own speed or precision.
They were locked in a dance, the clack of wooden swords beating out across the practice field in an almost musical rhythm, their movements fluid but also spare. As much as the big fellow had the advantage in size and strength, Karigan learned to counter that advantage and use it against him.
“She does well,” Elgin murmured.
“Yes,” Laren said, with more than a little pride. “She always has.”
She had known from the very beginning, the way a farmer can sense how a season’s crops will bear out, that Karigan would prove to be one of her more exceptional Riders. It might have had something to do with her grand entrance into the king’s throne room that day some three years ago, borne by the Wild Ride and the spirits of Riders past.
But there was more to it. Despite being touched by the supernatural, Karigan was, in most ways, a very ordinary young woman, at times self-conscious and awkward. She might be good at some things, like her sword technique, but she was not good at everything. Drent still forbade her to handle throwing knives.
No matter what strange adventures came Karigan’s way, her unassuming nature grounded her, allowed her to accomplish what she must. And when she received praise for her accomplishments? It was not false modesty but genuine surprise she expressed that anyone should notice.
And there was that strong will of hers. Laren thought back to the letter she’d received from Stevic G’ladheon and there was no need to guess from where, or rather from whom, Karigan had acquired her strong will. As for her modesty? That must have come from her mother’s side.
Laren smiled thinking of the invitation Stevic had enclosed with his return message. He insisted she come to Corsa to inspect firsthand the materials and goods with which he intended to supply the Riders. He wished, he said, to ensure they were to her satisfaction. She had to admit it was tempting—she hadn’t taken leave in years, but there was so much to oversee here. So much to do.
Drent, she saw, watched the bout unmoving, his beefy arms folded across his chest. He might complain about having to train Karigan, but he certainly wouldn’t bother with her if he didn’t think she had potential.
Then she caught sight of another watching from the far fringes. Few others seemed to notice his presence, for their attention was focused on the bout, and he was cloaked and hooded. But Laren knew him too well to miss him. So Zachary had come to observe as well. Did he know that it would be Karigan specifically training at this time?
Stupid question, she thought. Of course he did.
She returned her gaze to Karigan locked in her dance, her expression one of deep concentration. She’d be unaware of the onlookers. Mud splashed around her feet and sweat sprayed from her face. Her braid whipped across her back.
She might be unaware of those who watched, but with a quick glance to Zachary, Laren knew of one who was far from oblivious. He followed the bout with all the ardor of an expert swordsman, a proud parent, or a fiercely protective guardian.
Or a lover.
She sighed. She’d seen that look before, the change in his demeanor whenever Karigan was near. Felt his intensity. Others might not perceive it, but she and Zachary were very close—she had known him since he was a child and had been like an older sister to him as he grew up. Consequently she was able to recognize his feelings for what they were, and soon figured out the object of his desire was one of her very own Riders.
She’d thought maybe his love for Karigan would fade over time. She’d sent Karigan away on errands to keep them apart, hoping he’d turn his attention to Lady Estora, perhaps even forget Karigan, but from the way he now studied her every move, it appeared Laren’s efforts had fallen short.
It was not malicious intent that caused Laren to thwart any blossoming romantic bond between the two. On the contrary, she wished only for Zachary’s happiness, but as a king, his happiness was secondary to the needs of his realm, and his realm needed him to marry Lady Estora for the stability and continuity it would bring his reign, not to mention how it would reinforce the loyalty of the eastern provinces.
Should Zachary discard Lady Estora in favor of a commoner, the breach of the betrothal contract could wreak untold turmoil, even civil war, the last thing they needed with Second Empire building up its forces. It was vital Sacoridia remain strong and united.
There was the possible threat to Karigan, too, that concerned Laren. So much was riding on the betrothal for some factions that they’d do anything to see it through. Anything. If Karigan was identified as a distraction that kept Zachary from fulfilling his duty to Lady Estora ... ? No, Laren couldn’t allow it.
Elgin touched her sleeve. “Look!”
Laren tore her gaze from Zachary. In the practice ring, Karigan’s opponent moved against the rhythm they’d established. He cut his sword at Karigan’s knees.
Almost faster than Laren’s eyes could perceive, Karigan hopped back and smashed his sword out of his hand.
“Hah!” Laren exclaimed, clapping.
Drent looked surprised, then pleased. “Well, well,” he said, and he left to work with another pair of trainees.
Karigan herself appeared bemused, and her opponent plainly shocked, as he gazed at his empty hand.
Zachary was already striding away, his cloak billowing behind him, a Weapon following at his heels.
“I think, perhaps, it was time I proceeded to my meeting,” Laren said. Just as she finished speaking, the bell down in the city began to peal out eleven hour. She hastened away from the practice field with Elgin hurrying beside her. “Was there something else?” she asked him.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the training of the young ones—”
“I think Mara and Ty would be your best help.”
“Ty is who I wanted to talk about.”
Laren halted. “Ty? What about him?”
“Too much etiquette.”
“Too much ... ?” Laren almost laughed, but Elgin’s expression was serious.
“Not enough combat and riding,” he said.
The last strike of eleven hour faded away. She was late. “Chief, please address this with Mara. I’ve got to go!”
“But—”
“I’m sorry!” She hurried toward the steps of the main castle entrance, hoping he would talk to Mara. Ty was a natural in many ways when it came to training new Riders, but she also trusted Elgin’s experience and wisdom to know when something could be improved.
Etiquette, eh? It did have its place, but she’d rather her Riders be capable of defending themselves in a fight. Osric was very capable, but it did not help him in the end. Still, she wanted her Riders to have every chance possible.
As she entered the castle, she wished she could forget etiquette and call upon her combat skills in some of these meetings she had to sit through, but unfortunately, etiquette and her wits were the only weapons she was permitted.
A CONFRONTATION
“I volunteer myself,” Laren declared, unable to cool the heat in her voice.
Her pronouncement was met with shocked silence.
“Absolutely not,” Zachary said seconds later, and the others at the tab
le murmured in agreement.
“I will not command my Riders to do something I’m not willing to undertake myself. I will go in their stead. Do you not think me capable?”
Zachary looked taken aback. “Captain, I should think Blackveil would tremble to its very foundations just to imagine you crossing its borders, but I dare not risk you.”
Laren thought the heat of her anger must fairly radiate throughout the meeting chamber. “Are my Riders so much less important that you dare risk them in this manner?”
“Do you think I don’t know what it means to send them into Blackveil?” Zachary retorted. “They are my people, too, Captain, and it is no easy thing for me. I believe, however, you and your experience best serve your Riders here.”
“I must agree,” General Harborough said from across the table. He was a blocky, thick-necked man, and he needed to shift the whole of his body in his chair to look at her. “It is the lot of commanders to send their troops into battle.”
Laren knew they were both right, but why did half the company going into Blackveil have to consist of her Riders and not others? The company would only number six individuals to match the six Eletians going in, but still, three Riders meant half the contingent.
Of course, more than anyone else she knew why. Green Riders were most suited for this kind of mission, with their ability to work independently, and their experience as scouts. No doubt their special abilities would prove helpful in dealing with the forest. But with one of her Riders freshly dead and her grief still raw, it was a hard thing to choose others to head toward so uncertain a fate.
Lord Spane cleared his throat. “Perhaps the captain does not feel her Riders are up to the task.”
Snake! Laren thought. From the mouth of one who had never faced an ounce of danger himself, and who would not think twice about squandering the lives of those who served him.
But it was Lady Estora who reproached him. “Richmont, you speak out of turn. The Green Riders are capable beyond your imaginings.”