Then, as if a hand reached into her chest and clenched her heart, she felt pain all over again, and cold. She was wrenched earthward, against the forces of the heavens.
No! she cried. Westrion!
She was echoed by an angry screech. The flutter of wings grew more distant and soon vanished.
“You shall serve me,” the melodic voice said.
Joy’s feet were planted on the ground. She looked skyward, but the starry night was gone, and the air was hazy gray and dull, lifeless. The arrows projected from her chest like porcupine quills and she tried to pull them out, but only enveloped herself with pain.
“They mark you as mine. Think of them as your collar, slave.” The gray rider still sat upon his horse, but he was no longer gray. His cloak and hood shimmered with the colors of the rainbow, and he almost looked as if he sat upon the air, for his horse blended in with the gray and lifeless world.
Her corpse, and Red Wing’s, lay insubstantial, ghostly. Her body was splayed and broken, her blood had saturated her shirt and coat with darkness. It was not red in her vision. Only the winged horse brooch had any color. It blossomed with a cold, golden gleam. She reached for it, but her hand passed through her body.
She looked at her hands.They were flesh colored, they flexed open and closed into fists. They seemed alive. Was this what it was like to be a ghost? The living world became dead?
Joy.
Joy looked behind her, and there stood F’ryan Coblebay, more real than anything in the midst of the gray world. His green uniform was almost vibrant. Take my hand, he said. He stretched his gloved hand toward her.
Behind him stood a host of Green Riders dressed in uniforms from centuries gone by. They whispered and shifted like shadows. Take his hand, they whispered to her. Red Wing stood there with him, his mane and tail flowing in no natural wind.
Joy reached for him, the pain constricted around her chest, the darkness spread.
Come, F’ryan said. You are one of us.
What has happened? She gasped.
This is a between place, F’ryan said. The Shadow Man keeps us from going beyond. His arrows, they are anchors. Take my hand.
Take his hand, the others whispered.
“Do not listen,” the gray rider said. “Or you will be tormented forever by pain. It would be worse than any hell wrought by your mythologies.”
Take my hand, F’ryan said.
Joy fought the pain, her fingers touching his. They were warm, felt like real flesh. He grasped her hand and held it. The arrows seared her chest. If she went to the gray rider, she would be relieved of the pain. But it was not right for her to join him.
NORTH
Karigan awoke with the echo of hoofbeats fading with her dreams, and all but forgotten as she attacked her morning tasks. The Horse was promptly fed, watered, and rubbed down. Breakfast was prepared and eaten with dispatch. She took up a broom which had stood hidden in a dark corner and swept the cabin thoroughly.
She checked her packs to make sure all was in order. She found F’ryan Coblebay’s love letter to Lady Estora in the message satchel. Maybe Torne and Jendara had thought any document was valuable and so saved it. Certainly they weren’t being sentimental. Karigan herself had forgotten all about it. The important thing was that the message to King Zachary was still intact, the seal unbroken.
As she folded and returned the bedclothes to the cedar closet, she espied a tongue of leather sticking out between some blankets. It was a swordbelt and scabbard. A swordbelt would make it more difficult to separate her from the saber. It was a loose fit even when buckled on the last hole, but it would do. She tucked the excess leather beneath the belt, and sheathed the saber into the plain black scabbard.
In an effort not to look so much like a Green Rider in a town that would not welcome one, she dressed in her own blue trousers, and rolled up the sleeves of her new linen shirt to hide the insignia. It was warm enough anyway. She tied the greatcoat around the bedroll, but the brooch remained pinned to her shirt. It wasn’t supposed to identify one as a Green Rider anyway, except to another Green Rider. It stood to reason that the tack might give her away, but she hoped nobody would look close enough to notice.
She took one last glance around the cabin and sighed. The stories it could tell . . . I suppose I heard most of them last night from Abram.
Gathering up the tack and packs, Karigan stepped outside into sunshine. Reluctantly she latched the door behind her and walked to the paddock, the saber slapping awkwardly against her thigh.
The path was still moist from the previous day’s rain, and the air was heavy with the smells of evergreen and bayberry drying in the sun. Bayberry? She stopped in her tracks. There hadn’t been a bayberry bush next to the path yesterday, had there? But there it was, next to a patch of bunchberry flowers.
“I don’t believe it.”
Each bunchberry flower was perfect except for one missing a petal. She plucked it and twirled it in front of her eyes. Could it be? She slipped it into her pocket and snapped off a bayberry branch just in case.
Abram awaited her in the paddock, patting The Horse on his neck. “Good morning,” he said. “Your guide awaits you.”
Karigan returned his greeting with a grin. She set the saddle on the paddock fence and slipped the bridle over The Horse’s head. “I appreciate this. The Mirwellians won’t find me in the forest.”
Abram returned her smile, then helped her place the saddle on The Horse’s back. “That is correct.”
Abram insisted that she ride The Horse though he would be on foot—he claimed his long legs could keep up with any steed. Karigan pulled the girth tight, hoisted up her sagging swordbelt, and mounted. Abram led them out of the paddock, The Horse’s hooves sinking into the mud.
Karigan ducked beneath tree limbs laden with water from the previous day’s rain, but still managed to get drenched. Biters clouded in the shade, their numbers beginning to wane as the season progressed.
Sun filtered through the trees and turned droplets clinging to spiderwebs into lacy jewels. Fiddleheads unfurled into broad cinnamon ferns, and the leaves of aspen, birch, and maple trees fully budded, blotting out the sky more than ever.
Abram guided her along no visible trail. He skirted granite ledges and winter blow-downs, stepped across gurgling streams that would dry out by summer’s end, and wove his way through patches of brush. Whatever path he followed, it was easy to travel. He hummed the entire way, his beard bristling as if he were smiling. Karigan wondered at his content and was surprised he did not smoke. When she remarked upon this, he replied, “I need no smoke here. Into the cities and villages, by the side of a fire, that is where I need it.”
They spoke little as they traveled, though they stopped periodically so Abram could show Karigan delicate lady’s slippers, bluets, and trillium, his huge hands dwarfing the blossoms. The sun changed the shapes of shadows in the woods and lifted a moist vapor from the damp ground. Pine needles scattered on the forest floor dried in the sun, and left a strong tang of balsam in the air. Somewhere a woodpecker could be heard tapping on a tree.
Abram stopped and looked up. Karigan followed his gaze and beheld the tallest white pine she had ever seen. Its girth was so wide that even Abram couldn’t wrap his arms all the way around it.
“This tree is hundreds of years old,” he said. “I never fail to be awed by it. See up the trunk, the scar that looks like the shape of a gull in flight?”
She squinted, barely able to discern crude wings and a body cut into the bark. The scar was dark, an old carving. “Who would bother to do such a thing?” She was familiar with the carvings made by lovers, but who would carve a gull into the trunk of a tree in the middle of the wilderness?
“One who was a forester long before me.”
“But why do it in the first place?” Carving initials into a tree was a silly way to express love. Love was a bit silly, anyway. But it was also cruel if the love ended.
Abram slapped the tree trunk with
his palm as if meeting an old friend. “This was a king’s tree, young one. Marked to one day be the mast of some great sailing vessel. The mark is that of Clan Sealender.”
“Sealender?” Karigan furrowed her brow. It was a new clan name to her.
“The bloodline that ruled Sacoridia before Hillander. When Sealender died out, Hillander battled for and won the right of succession. Both are descended from the original Sacor Clans.”
“Oh.” Once again, Karigan had been stumped by what was probably common knowledge. Next time, if there was a next time, she wouldn’t be so neglectful of her history lessons.
“I would not cut this tree down if the king himself commanded me to do so.” Abram looked up the tree trunk again, the crinkles beneath his eyes deepening with a smile.
They left the pine behind, circling around tiny spruces waiting in the shade for their chance to grow tall. The afternoon sun waned, forest shadows shifted as they walked. Abram stopped, his head stooped, listening. Blows could be heard, not the crisp rat-a-tat of a woodpecker, rather the chopping of an ax against wood.
“We are near the boundary,” Abram said, “but that still sounds too close.”
Without further comment, he bounded away, agile as any deer despite his bulk. Karigan watched after him for a shocked moment before urging The Horse to follow behind at a trot. Abram hadn’t been boasting when he said his long legs could match the pace of any horse.
Two men hammered at a tree with broad axes. They had already felled one tree. Two oxen stood by chewing cud, a sledge chained to their harness to drag away timber. The two men didn’t hear Abram and Karigan approach, so engrossed by their chore were they.
“Stop!” Abram bellowed.
Karigan would not have been surprised if the whole of Sacoridia stilled at his command. The very trees shivered. The two men paused in mid-strike, terror flashing across their faces when they took in Abram.
“You are on king’s land.” Abram fisted his hands on his hips. Sun glinted off the blade of his ax.
The two glanced at each other and raised their axes defensively. “King never cuts here,” one said, and he spat. “He can’t protect this forest forever.”
The second man spoke more uncertainly. “Soon the demand for paper—”
“You are breaking king’s law,” Abram broke in without hesitation, his voice strong and sure. “Poaching the king’s trees or wild beasts is punishable by death. I am commissioned to mete out the king’s justice where this forest is concerned.”
The first man glowered, but the second quailed. Karigan glanced at Abram in horror. His face was unreadable. Surely he wouldn’t—
Abram stepped forward and the first man raised his ax, this time offensively. Abram rushed him and grabbed the handle before the ax could cut him, breaking the haft over his knee. The second man dropped his ax voluntarily.
“Karigan,” Abram said heavily, “this is where we must part. North isn’t far.”
“What are you going to—”
“Farewell, Green Rider.” He nodded his head in dismissal. “It was a good meeting.”
“I—” Abram’s look told her that she had better move on. “Good-bye,” she said. “Thank you.” But he had already turned back to the two men and did not hear.
Karigan caught the first man watching her with a dark scowl as she rode away. Surely Abram wouldn’t carry out the death penalty. It wasn’t in his nature to do so. But the two tree poachers didn’t know it.
The trees simply ended. Karigan and The Horse were swathed in full sunlight for the first time since their strange journey together had begun. The Horse snorted and sidestepped, and Karigan covered her eyes until they adjusted to the light. She let out a low whistle. As far as the eye could stretch, the land was a desert of tree stumps. Only on the most distant hills, and behind her, could she find trees.
They skirted the edge of the woods until they met the road. Karigan cast a cautious eye before stepping onto it. The road was a muddy gutter of cloven hoofprints, and was rutted with gullies full of water where timber sledges had grooved the surface. They cantered as much to escape the devastation of the forest as to reach the town of North by sunset. The absence of trees exposed them to watching eyes, and left Karigan feeling very vulnerable.
As dusk deepened, a horseman approached at a quick trot. Karigan slowed The Horse to a jog, and patted the hilt of her saber to ensure it still hung at her side.
It wasn’t easy to distinguish the horseman from the shadows. He was garbed in a long gray cloak with the hood thrown over his face. A quiver of arrows was strapped to his back, and a longbow crossed his shoulder. His stallion was a tall gray, at least as tall as The Horse, but more finely proportioned. The silver of his tack jingled as he trotted.
The Horse clung to the right side of the road and laid his ears back.
“What is it?” Karigan asked, tightening her grip on the hilt of her sword. The Horse shook his head, his ears flickered back and forth.
Karigan licked her lips nervously as the gray-cloaked figure drew closer. It would not do to look frightened. The more confident she appeared, the less likely she would be attacked if the horseman was a brigand. She released the hilt of her sword, fingers trembling, and turned to the horseman.
“Good evening,” she said.
The rider turned his hood toward her, its depths vacant of all but shadows. An inexplicable dread weighed her down as the hidden gaze raked across her, holding her for some interminable time, perhaps seconds. She sensed something fair that had been tainted, something of age, but young. Something terrible.
The horseman nodded, and the gray stallion trotted on by. Karigan sagged in relief, releasing the breath she had held during the momentary exchange.
The jingle of tack and plod of hooves paused as if the rider had stopped to gaze after her. She glanced over her shoulder, but no one was there. Karigan wilted in her saddle. There was no place for the horseman to hide, yet he was gone.
“Don’t tell me I’m beginning to see other ghosts,” she murmured, but the cold dread returned when she remembered F’ryan Coblebay’s last words: Beware the shadow man.
Sunset blooded the sky behind them as she clucked The Horse into a canter, more eager than ever to reach civilization. They did not slow until they entered town, and her initial relief turned into misgiving as she took in the shamble of clapboard wooden structures with garish hand-painted signs advertising mercantiles, a smithy, inns, and pubs.
The pubs and inns were already brightly lit from within, and bodies were pressed up against the windows. Bawdy music and loud laughter drifted into the sultry dark. She passed The Prancing Lady, The Broken Tree, and The Twisted Mule, and at The Full Moon, a man staggered into the street with a woman riding piggyback. Her face was gaudily painted, she wore a corset and little else, and was covering the man’s eyes with her hands.
“Ha, ha, Wilmy,” he said, wobbling this way and that down the street. “You let me see now, y’hear? Y’let me, an’ we’ll have good fun.” They disappeared down an alley. The woman’s giggles echoed back out to the street, were followed by silence, then delighted squeals.
After a time, Karigan caught up to, and followed behind, a horse cart. Something large and heavy bumped on its wooden bottom as the wheels jolted over ruts in the street.
“Hey, Garl,” said a man who leaned against a hitching post. “Watcha find?”
The cart driver hauled on the reins and whoaed his horse to a halt. “Remember that Greenie that come by the other day, asking all those questions ’bout some girl? I found her over by Millet’s Pond, two arrows in ’er.”
“Just as well,” the hitching post man said. “We’ve no need for those types ’round here.”
Karigan went cold. Another dead Green Rider? With two arrows in her? She rode by the cart, The Horse’s head lowered as if he knew a dead Green Rider lay in it. Karigan didn’t want to look, but could not avoid the glint of light from a nearby inn on the Rider’s gold hair. She lay half on
her side, one gauntleted hand stretched out, the fingers slightly curled. The other hand lay across her stomach. She looked as if she might be asleep, except for the two black arrows protruding from her chest. The drinking song issuing from the inn made a grotesque dirge.
Karigan urged The Horse on, and the Rider’s gold-winged horse brooch shimmered in the corner of her eye. Shaken, she stared straight ahead, the conversation and laughter of the two men fading behind her. Didn’t they care that a woman lay dead next to them? Didn’t they know that Green Riders were brave and deserved more than being thrown into the back of some dirty horse cart?
A somber mood took Karigan. She dismounted in front of The Fallen Tree, the inn Abram had recommended. The carved sign above the door showed an ax embedded in a tree stump. No mistake about what this town was known for.
A stableboy came to claim The Horse. “Is there room for the night?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“Then I’ll see to my horse myself.”
The boy shrugged. It wasn’t what guests usually requested, but she didn’t want to chance anyone seeing her gear close up. She led The Horse through an alley to the rear of the inn where a stable and small paddock stood lighted by lanterns. Karigan hitched The Horse to a railing and untacked him there. Once free, he trotted to the center of the paddock for an enthusiastic roll in the mud. Karigan chuckled despite herself.
The stableboy watched The Horse grunt and rub his neck and side into the ground. “Where’d you find the horse?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“I saw his scars. A Green Rider was asking after such a horse the other day.”
Karigan had to bite her tongue to regain her composure. The Green Rider had been looking for The Horse? “Are you implying I stole a horse, boy?”
“Why—” The boy looked at her with big eyes.
“I bought that horse from a mercenary, at a fair price, too.” Karigan used as stern a voice as possible, and it was working. She blessed her fast thinking. A mercenary’s horse would be prone to scars, too.