WAYSTATION
They galloped through the night,The Horse’s hooves echoing dully on the road. The gray world passed as a blur, and Karigan relied on The Horse to find the way. Holding onto his mane and keeping her seat was all she could manage under the weight of invisibility. When the night changed to a lighter shade of gray, The Horse slowed to a walk and halted.
“What?” Karigan was unable to lift her head from his warm neck.
The Horse glanced both ways up and down the road, then with a swish of his tail, he stepped into the woods. No path existed here, not even a deer trail, yet as they passed through the woods, no underbrush or low hanging branches snagged them, and the ground was clear and level.
The Horse skirted a granite outcropping, and something snapped within Karigan. The world repainted itself in the colors of early dawn, and the weight of invisibility lifted from her and raised her spirits.
Snug against a granite ledge, a tiny log cabin, with a fenced paddock and attached lean-to shelter, came into view. She was nearly on top of it before she saw it. There was no sign of life anywhere near the cabin except the morning song of birds.
“What is this place?” Karigan asked The Horse. She dismounted, falling to her knees in fatigue. He nuzzled her shoulder reassuringly. The brooch had sapped Karigan’s energy painfully, and it was some time before she could stand again, and even then, she had to lean against The Horse for support as they walked to the cabin. A winged horse was carved on the door.
“Is this a Green Rider . . . shelter?” she asked.
The Horse whickered and nudged her back. She unlatched the door and stumbled inside. The one room cabin was musty from lack of use, and dust swirled about her boots with each step she took. Green Riders probably didn’t travel this way often.
The interior was cloaked in darkness with the shutters fastened closed, but she had reclaimed her moonstone along with her other belongings, and now used it to light the building. Silver light stretched to all corners of the cabin, and lifted some of her fatigue and heartened her as if to remind her that she was truly alive.
A straw mattress lay on a simple bed frame against the far wall, a shelf above held some candles, a lamp, and even a few books. Wood was stacked next to a stone fireplace with snowshoes propped on the mantel. More shelves held jars sealed with wax and cork.
A cedar-lined closet contained blankets, pillows, and some clothing. Karigan tore off her own shirt, stained with Garroty’s tobacco juice and, now she saw in the light, flecks of blood. Throwing it to the floor, she grabbed a white linen shirt from the closet and pulled it over her head. Then she pinned the brooch on. She felt less dirty now, having broken one more thread that had bound her to the mercenaries.
She took some bedclothes from the closet and heaped them on the table. Using what little strength she possessed, she beat on the mattress, raising all manner of dust. She staggered out of the cabin sneezing.
The Horse watched her expectantly, his ears at point. When the fit passed, Karigan untacked him. “Sorry I made you wait, Horse,” she said. Her father and her riding master had both insisted that the horse that bore you must be seen to before yourself. She should have taken care of him before investigating the cabin. After all, he had carried her through the night for who knew how many miles, while she had clung to him witless under the spell of the brooch. He deserved her consideration at the very least.
Once untacked, The Horse walked into the paddock and under the roof of the shelter. Again, he watched her expectantly. Karigan followed and gazed about. A large bin containing a stash of grain and two buckets was attached to one of the walls. The grain appeared, if not fresh, unspoiled; no beetles or worms crawled in it.
She scooped some of the sweet-smelling grain into one bucket, then took the other in search of water. She did not have to go very far. A spring bubbled behind the shelter, trickling into a stream that ran down an embankment. She drank of the clear cold water, unclogging her throat of road and cabin dust, then filled the bucket and took it to The Horse. With those tasks accomplished, she returned to the cabin, wrapped a blanket around herself, and fell to the bed. She was asleep in an instant.
Karigan awoke with a shiver. Her breath fogged in the cool, damp air—not at all unusual in a northern spring, but not altogether pleasant. At first she thought it was the same morning as that of her arrival, but this morning was drizzly, whereas yesterday had promised warmth and sun. With the blanket still wrapped around her, she found a tinder box on the fireplace mantel, opened the flue of the chimney, and stacked wood on the hearth for a cheerful blaze. It wasn’t long before the cabin filled with warmth.
She traded the blanket for her greatcoat and stepped outside to see to The Horse. She refilled his grain and water buckets, the pure ordinariness of the activity creating a sense of security that she hadn’t felt for ages. Maybe she could stay hidden in this place and let the world continue without her.
The scent of wood smoke lured her back into the cabin. She had filled a kettle with spring water and now set it over the fire. It had been days since Jendara had let her bathe in a muddy stream, and her fastidious nature insisted upon bathing as a priority that morning. As she waited for the water to heat up, she searched the shelves again. The jars contained tea, spices, soap, and ointment, as well as an assortment of mismatched crockery. Karigan gleefully sprinkled tea leaves into a crude mug, and anticipated the boiling of the water.
She espied her old, stained shirt out of the corner of her eye where she had dropped it on the floor the previous morning. With a grim smile, she pinched a corner of the fabric between her fingers and tossed it into the fire. The rest of her clothes, except a pair of blue trousers, had been left by the roadside miles ago, deemed worthless by Jendara and Torne.
On impulse, she inspected the closet again, the scent of cedar hanging heavy and cloying in the little cabin. Within, she found more linen shirts, but only one fit reasonably well. Each shirt bore a winged horse embroidered in gold on the sleeve. Karigan glanced at her own sleeve, and sure enough, found a winged horse.
Soft hide trousers dyed in green, fur-lined greatcoats and cloaks, tall black boots, and mittens and gloves filled the closet, but only one pair of trousers fit her. She pulled out a pair of leather gloves with flaring cuffs over her hands, and liked the effect. The cuffs would hide the burns on her wrists.
“Well,” she said, “everyone thinks I’m a Green Rider, so I may as well dress like one.”
Everything in the closet was new and unused, and a notice tacked to the closet door requested that all items removed be reported to the quartermaster for restocking purposes. It was one more thing she would have to take care of when she reached Sacor City. If she made it.
When the water boiled, Karigan brewed some tea and set about washing herself with a cloth and honey soap. Gritting her teeth, she pried the dirt-caked dressings from her wrists. They stuck stubbornly to her skin, and the scabs broke as she pulled. Her wrists were chafed, tender, sore, and oozing, but not festering. The care of the Eletians had surpassed anything the menders in Selium could have done. She cleaned the burns, applied ointment, and dressed them with fresh bandage strips she had found in the cabinet.
A look in a dusty mirror revealed yellowing bruises on her face. She averted her gaze, Garroty’s assault all too fresh in her mind.
Her stomach rumbled, and only now did she think about food. Though Torne, Jendara, and Garroty had dented her food stores, there was still some hard bread, cheese and dried meat left in the saddlebags. Further digging revealed two wrinkly apples. Karigan sat down for a feast by the crackling fire, as the warmth of the tea spread throughout her body.
It was late afternoon by the time Karigan realized she had dozed off. She stretched muscles cramped by the wooden chair, and threw a new log on the fading embers of the fire. Then she looked over the cabin’s supply of books which included the fictional story The Journeys of Gilan Wylloland. Karigan had read and reread it long ago, though fiction books were hard to come by
. Her mother had spotted it at a fair and added it to the tiny G’ladheon library.
As a child, Karigan had pretended she was Gilan’s side-kick, Blaine, traveling lands that existed only in the author’s imagination. She had trooped around her father’s estate brandishing a stick as her sword, and tormented the house cat as if he were the murderous dragon Viliflavo. The offended tom was named Dragon as a result.
Now Karigan was experiencing her own adventure, but it wasn’t anything like The Journeys of Gilan Wylloland. The danger was far too real and unpleasant. Gilan and Blaine had ridden through adventure after adventure nearly unscathed. Karigan could not say the same.
Another book, titled The Natural History of the Northern Wilderness, had also been on the shelf of Master Ione’s classroom. What possible use Green Riders would have for it, she couldn’t imagine. It did not occur to her that at least one among them was interested in the wildflowers, birds, or mammals of the region. Surely Green Riders were far too busy to worry about nature.
The third and last book was bound in plain leather. It was some sort of journal. Inside, a variety of handwriting styles were scrawled across the pages, some legible, some not. She sat by the fire, absorbed by the entries.
Arrived at North waystation by dusk, wrote Pary Mantobe. Snowshoes a must—blizzard dropping inches more of snow as I write. Am not sure I will even be able to reach the horse.
Karigan gazed sideways at the snowshoes on the mantel. The entry was over ten years old.
Some nameless Rider wrote in another entry: Saw a pileated woodpecker by the stream. Bear tracks in the mud of the spring. Several songbirds I couldn’t identify greeted me this morning. Karigan held the book to her chest. Bears! She hadn’t even thought about them.After all her adventures thus far, they didn’t seem like much of a threat by comparison.
An entry by T. Bankside read: . . . chased by brigands all the way from North—Lt. Mapstone’s knife wound festering badly. She’s burning with fever—don’t know if she’ll live the night. Karigan flipped the page, but the chronicler failed to mention whether or not the lieutenant had survived.
She read until dusk. Many of the entries were no more than accounts of the weather and local fauna. Some entries were set in poetry, while others were accompanied by illustrations. By the time she finished the book, she was under the impression that Green Riders were a colorful group.
Karigan left the warmth of the cabin to check on The Horse. He trotted up to the gate of the enclosure and whickered in greeting. Despite the damp weather, he seemed in good spirits.
“You deserve a break, don’t you,” she said. After she fed and watered him, she turned to walk back to the cabin, and walked right into a big man. She screamed and fell back, wishing herself invisible.
The man was massive, even taller than her father, with enough heft to make him appear as broad as he was tall. His face was a tangle of curly gray whiskers that hung from his face like lichen draped over spruce branches. Black eyes pierced beneath bushy brows. He was dressed in drab brown and gray, and a huge ax hung from his belt. He was a troll come to life.
He rotated slowly around, as if trying to see where she went. “Green Rider?” The voice was surprisingly gentle. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Please come back. I smelled the wood smoke and wanted to make sure all was well.”
The Horse gave the giant little more than a cursory glance before sticking his nose into the grain bucket.
The weight of invisibility wore on Karigan, chafing against her like an old wound. “Who are you?” she asked, not willing just yet, to reveal herself.
The man turned in the direction of her voice, but looked through her. “I am Abram Rust, King’s Forester.” He moved aside his damp cloak and revealed the emblem of an evergreen embroidered on his leather vest. “I mean no harm.”
Karigan dropped the invisibility and staggered against a fence post.
“You really shouldn’t use your magic here,” the man said, his tone matter-of-fact.
Karigan’s eyes widened. Was she the last person in all of Sacoridia to know that people still used magic?
“Those who built this waystation wanted to ensure it remained hidden. They set spells around the area. Strong, old spells, I’ll wager. When you use your own magic, it conflicts.”
Karigan raised a brow. “How do you know all this?”
“I’ve known a great many Green Riders, and they’ve told me things. You look pale. Won’t you let me help you back inside?”
Karigan clung fiercely to the fence post as he stretched out a bear paw of a hand. “Let me tell you, Forester, I’ve killed an evil creature from Kanmorhan Vane, a mercenary, and a swordmaster.” The latter claim was somewhat dubious; it had been F’ryan Coblebay, using her body, who had defeated Torne, but it would serve to impress the giant.
He nodded solemnly. “I’m sure you’ve done a great many things, even as young as you are. Perhaps you can tell me of your adventures. It’s been a while since a Green Rider has passed this way. Please let me help you in. I promise I won’t harm you.”
Abram’s quiet voice was sincere. “Fine,” Karigan said,“but I won’t put up with anything. You make a wrong move, and I can’t promise you’ll live through the night.” She wasn’t sure, but Abram might have been smiling. It was hard to tell with all his whiskers, but crinkles deepened beneath his eyes. She took his hand and allowed herself to be led into the cabin.
Assured that Karigan was comfortably propped on the bed, Abram Rust sat in the chair by the fire. The chair creaked as if it might fall to pieces under his weight, but it held. Abram’s bulk crowded the cabin. Silence reigned as he gazed about speculatively, every movement deliberate, as if he thought it out before he did it, even the blinking of his eyes.
“This cabin does not change, but the Riders do.” His bass voice startled Karigan. “Rarely do I see the same two Riders pass through here.” His whiskers drooped.
“Why is that?”
“They move on to other routes or other jobs. Many die. I visit the cabin when a Rider is present to seek news. Often they tell me that a previous occupant has died in the line of duty.”
Karigan could believe it. “How long have you been coming here?”
He chuckled—it was a low throaty sound. “Years beyond count, young one. I’ve been roaming these woods long before the Riders decided to put a waystation here. I’ve roamed these woods before Zachary became king, even before his grandmother ruled. I’ve seen seedlings grow into mighty trees, then burn to the ground only to start the cycle anew. Through all the changes I am still Forester. I protect my domain as well as I can, though ever more it is threatened.”
“Threatened?” Karigan looked around the cabin as if brigands would break through the rough-hewn log walls.
“The mills. The need to clear land to farm and settle. The need to build fleets of ships to sail the seas; and the need to warm homes during our savage winters.” Abram leaned toward her, his features earnest. “There is even a growing need for paper these days. Acres of forest around here have been toppled. So far, this has been outside my domain, but they do not replant and carve ever deeper into the forest.”
“But surely your job is to cut trees.” Karigan looked at his ax meaningfully.
“You are correct, but this is king’s land. I’m the guardian of Zachary’s forests here, as I have been for three generations of his family. I am selective in my cutting. A few white pines here for ship masts, a few cedars there for shingles, and I always replant. As other forest is laid waste, my ax is used more to defend the boundaries of my domain. The folk of North are ever pressuring King Zachary to open his lands to lumbering. Some attempt it without seeking permission.”
“This North is a lumber town?”
“Mostly.” Abram pulled out a pipe and tobacco pouch from his cloak. He stuffed the pipe with tobacco and drew a flame on some kindling from the fire and lit it. “It began as a small settlement about a hundred years back. But with all the demands f
or timber nowadays, the population swelled.”
Abram blew smoke rings toward the ceiling, an amused twinkle in his eyes. When the rings dissipated, the twinkle faded. “North is a lawless town now. Most of the folk descended from the original settlers left, sold their claims. Some stayed to see what wealth they could make themselves. Others opened mercantiles and inns. The fur trade is growing, too, and now I must protect the creatures within my domain, as well as the trees.”
“I’ve never heard of North.” Or had she? Something the Berry sisters had said nagged at the back of her mind.
“This must be a new route for you,” Abram said. “Or maybe you are just new.”
Karigan grimaced. “I’m not really a Green Rider.”
Abram stood up, his head brushing the rafters. His hand went to the haft of his ax. “How can this be?” His eyes glinted dangerously. He was like a rearing bear: bristling, wrathful, and immense. His presence overpowered the room.
Frightened by this sudden transformation, Karigan tried to fade out again, but pain lanced through her head. The effort was too much.
“Who are you?” Abram demanded. “You dress like a Green Rider and use Green Rider magic. Who are you?”
“I am Karigan G’ladheon. I’m finishing a mission for a dead Green Rider.”
Abram looked at her askance, then let his hand drop from the ax to his side. “It sounds an interesting story. Tell me, and I will decide.” He sat again, but rigidly, his eyes still suspicious.
Karigan started with her flight from Selium and finished with her arrival to the waystation. “I am not a Green Rider,” she said, “but I’m helping one.”
Abram’s eyes softened considerably, and he relaxed in his chair. “A long journey you’ve had, a brave one. I met F’ryan Coblebay once. About two years ago he passed through my domain. A lively lad, very cheerful. I’m sorry to hear of his demise. I understand now, how I mistook you for a Rider. I did think you young, though I know they will accept young people.”