A shadow darkened the crack between the door and floor, then passed over the keyhole. The doorknob twisted one way, then the other. Karigan held her breath, stiffened, listening, afraid to move. Her sword was on the other side of the room with the brooch.
A sharp light pierced through the keyhole, searching, probing.
Karigan sat up and threw the covers aside. The cold night spread goosepimples across her body as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She tiptoed across the icy floor, took up her saber, and waited by the door.
Strangely, the door seemed to flex and swim in her eyes. She blinked, but the door still distorted and warped in fluid motions, and she felt with a creeping certainty that it wasn’t her own groggy vision that warped the door, but magic. She reached for her brooch unconsciously, and discovered it was warm to her touch. The door would give in moments, and with growing apprehension, she knew it was the Shadow Man, the rider in gray, who intended to enter her room.
The shaft of light probing through the keyhole suddenly withdrew, but before Karigan could breathe a sigh of relief, something else came through. At first it was so dark and tiny, as tiny as a fly, she could not see it, but it was even darker than the night, a small black orb that floated on the air, and her eyes fixed on it. The orb bobbed and drifted toward her, expanding as it did so.
It was oily black and radiated a halo of darkness that pushed away even the possibility of light. The orb continued to grow. Tendrils of energy flared and arched across its surface, searing and scorching. Karigan backed away, but the thing, now the size of her head, moved with her. Karigan backed until she was pressed up against the wall and could go no farther, and still it moved toward her.
Then heavy footsteps clumped outside. “Who’s there?” a man asked.
The door hardened into ordinary, solid pine wood again. The orb halted, wavered uncertainly, then shrank in the blink of an eye and whisked out through the keyhole. Feet padded lightly away and Karigan closed her eyes in relief. Moments later someone tapped on her door. Holding the saber level before her, she opened the door carefully. To her surprise, the minstrel stood there, his lute in one hand and a glowing oil lamp in the other.
“May I come in?” he whispered. His face looked gaunt in the flickering light. “If the innkeeper or his guard Tarone find me here, I shall be skinned where I stand.”
“Why should I allow you in my room?” Karigan demanded none too quietly.
The minstrel peered about nervously. “You are wise in your caution considering someone was trying to break into your room just now. I think I frightened him off, a stealthy fellow. You’ve nothing to fear from me. I am but a minstrel and carry nothing in the way of arms . . . my lute would be a clumsy weapon against your blade.”
“Some minstrels are trained in the fighting arts.”
“True. Especially if they were trained in Selium as I was. But I never took up a sword.”
“Selium?”
“Yes. I believe that is where you’ve come from, too.”
Karigan’s mouth gaped open. She stepped aside for the minstrel to enter. She shut the door behind him, but didn’t sheathe her sword.
The minstrel glanced around the room as if something might leap out of the shadows at any moment. “I am Gowen, a master of my craft. I would have sought you out sooner, but if I didn’t perform as usual, someone might have gotten suspicious.” What a master minstrel might be doing in a wilderness town like North, he didn’t say. Without hesitation he sat on her bed. It was the only place to sit.
“What do you want?” Karigan asked. “How do you know I’ve traveled from Selium?”
“A Green Rider was looking for you the other day. At least, you answer her description. When she saw I was Selium trained—” he pointed to the gold master’s knot on his shoulder, “—she knew she could trust me, and she knew that a master minstrel wouldn’t have been placed here by mistake.”
Karigan would have liked to have known what he meant by that. “I know a Green Rider was looking for me, or somebody who looked like me.”
“You missed her by about a day.”
“She’s dead. I saw her body in a horse cart.”
Gowen shook his head, bewildered. “I never thought the townsfolk would go so far as to actually kill someone from the king. Joy hadn’t been a Rider long.”
Karigan sat cross-legged on the floor, and rested her chin on her hands. “I’m not sure it was the townsfolk who killed her.”
Gowen cocked his head, his eyes searching hers. Minstrels certainly possessed penetrating eyes. “What is it you know?”
“All I know is that others, including another Green Rider, were murdered in the same manner. Two black arrows with red fletching.”
“Strange. Strange things are brewing. Poor Joy was searching for you, or your twin, but you weren’t her primary concern. A messenger horse was.”
“She didn’t say why on either count, did she?” It was too much of a coincidence.
“No. But, young lady, of greater concern are the others who were looking for one who also matched your description. Their description wasn’t as detailed as Joy’s, but good enough to make a match.”
Karigan bit her bottom lip. She didn’t want to ask, but she did anyway. “Were they Mirwellian?”
“I see you know you’re being pursued. They were here a few days ago. I’m not sure where they went after North, but they were in a hurry. I thought nothing of it till Joy described you. She didn’t tell me, though, that you were a Green Rider.”
“I’m not.”
The minstrel blinked, his only hint of surprise. “You wear Rider insignia.”
Karigan had forgotten about the winged horse embroidered on her sleeve. “I’m delivering a message for a dead Green Rider,” she said.
“Killed by two black arrows.”
She nodded.
“My dear young woman, you should not linger in this town. These black arrows sound like an omen to me. An omen of the dark past. No doubt it has something to do with Mornhavon the Black.”
Karigan shuddered. Whether it was the cold of the evening or the name that caused her to do so, she wasn’t sure. Mornhavon the Black’s name had come up a lot since she had started this strange journey, even though he had been vanquished centuries ago.
“That person outside your door may not have been an ordinary brigand, either,” Gowen said.
“How so?” Karigan’s voice held little surprise.
“Most don’t dare tamper with the guests of this inn. Keeper Wiles’ man, Tarone, hasn’t stopped short of killing to retain order here. Whoever wished to gain entry does not fear him.”
Goosepimples broke out all over again. “Did you get a look at him?”
Gowen shook his head. “He was light of foot and disappeared into the shadows the moment he detected me. The corner of his cloak caught in my lamplight. It was gray.”
A knock on the door startled them both.
“Oh, no. The innkeeper and his guard.” Gowen rolled his eyes.
Karigan climbed to her feet, carefully draping a blanket over her shoulders to conceal the Rider insignia before she opened the door. The innkeeper stood in the corridor flanked by a hulking giant who was, if not as tall as Abram, at least as wide. He held an enormous club in his hand, and nothing about him suggested Abram’s mild and careful nature. Now she knew how the innkeeper enforced order.
“Is everything well here?” the innkeeper asked, the corners of his mouth turned down as if to imply he didn’t really care, but he had a reputation to maintain.
“Everything is fine,” Karigan said. “Gowen and I were just having a conversation.”
The innkeeper sniffed and cast Gowen a severe glance. “You know the rules, minstrel. No . . . associations with the guests.” The guard thumped his club into his hand in emphasis. “You do your job well, but if you can’t abide by the rules, I shall have to release you.”
Karigan watched in fascination as Gowen affected a convincing facad
e of humility bordering on fear. “It’s really nothing, Keeper Wiles. Really.” His eyes were downcast and he bowed. “The lady and I were just making conversation. We hail from the same town. It won’t happen again, I assure you, sir.”
“It’s truly all right,” Karigan said. “He’s done no harm.”
Wiles grunted in disdain. “You may keep your job for now.” He turned down the corridor, his guard following behind with heavy footsteps.
Gowen dropped all facade. “That man is a pompous . . . Well, you saw him. Mind what I told you, young lady. And mind whatever Clatheas told you, too. She’s an accurate seer. Farewell and good luck to you!”
Karigan stood alone in her dark room. The door creaked as she closed it. She turned the key in the lock and fell back into bed. Sleep would be impossible now, and she gave some thought to leaving that very moment, but it wouldn’t do to arouse any more suspicion than she needed to. Besides, the starless night was less inviting than the warm inn, and she would rather stay put than encounter the Shadow Man again in the dark.
MIRWELL
The Green Rider passed the envelope to Beryl. Beryl glanced at it front and back, then handed it to the governor.
“It bears the king’s seal, my lord.”
Mirwell looked the envelope over. It was addressed to Honorable Tomastine II, Lord-Governor of Mirwell Province, Faithful Servant of Sacoridia. The seal on the back was Zachary’s, but featured his clan emblem, that of a Hillander terrier pressed into heather-colored wax, rather than the royal emblem of the firebrand and the half moon.
He slit the message open with his dagger and read the contents. Afterward, he handed it back to Beryl to read. The Greenie waited, standing statue-still with her hands clasped behind her back.
Mirwell glanced at her, then his aide. “Rider—”
“Ereal M’farthon, my lord,” Beryl provided.
“Rider M’farthon, would you tell us what else you carry in your message satchel?”
The messenger’s eyes grew wide, and she glanced questioningly at Beryl before her eyes fell back on the governor. “With all due respect, my lord—”
Mirwell stayed her words with his hand. “Please humor me, Rider. I ask for reasons of personal security.”
Beryl nodded to her reassuringly.
Good! Sometimes it took another woman to lend support. I am an old bear ugly enough to make anyone nervous.
The Rider cleared her throat. “With all due respect, my lord, while messages from His Excellency the King are matters of his own business, it’s no secret that I carry another invitation to deliver to the lord-governor of Adolind.”
Mirwell nodded gravely. “Thank you, Rider M’farthon. D’rang will escort you to the kitchen for provisions to make the rest of your long journey comfortable. In the meantime, I shall craft my reply.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The Rider bowed out of the library, followed by a soldier in scarlet.
When she was out of earshot and the doors closed, Mirwell turned to his aide. “What do you make of it, Spence? Another Greenie trying to reach Zachary’s spy?”
Beryl pulled thoughtfully at her lower lip. After a few moments she shook her head. “No, my lord.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I believe her intentions are as she says—to deliver invitations for the king’s banquet and ball. It’s certainly something she did not fabricate. Besides, we haven’t found any spy in your household yet, and we’ve been very thorough.”
Mirwell knew how thorough. Everyone who inhabited his keep, from the lowest servant to the highest courtier, including Prince Amilton and Beryl, had been interviewed extensively. Some to the point of torture. He had delighted in the screams of some of the courtiers he particularly disliked, and admired some of the techniques Beryl had employed to get them to “talk.” The results, however, indicated that no spy existed within House Mirwell. One positive byproduct of the investigation was a reminder to his subjects of his authority. All the better if they trembled a little when he walked by.
“My feeling,” Beryl said, “is that Coblebay was working on his own.”
Mirwell tapped the catamount head of his armrest.“Nevertheless, I’m not willing to take chances. Bring me Taggern.”
The guardsman was summoned, and clicked his boot heels to attention before his lord-governor.
“Taggern, see that Rider M’farthon doesn’t come in private contact with anyone while she is being provisioned. Get a look in her message satchel if you can, then get her underway as soon as my reply to the king is prepared. Escort her out of the village. I expect a report. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
When the guardsman left, Beryl said, “I could keep an eye on the Rider myself, my lord.”
“I need you to respond to Zachary for me. Your hand is fairer than mine.”
She stepped over to his massive desk, a behemoth of carved cherrywood inlaid with blond oak, which sat upon legs fashioned as the talons of some enormous raptor. He never used the desk himself, and rarely even cracked a book in his library collection. These had all been acquired over the generations, mostly by a Mirwell of a more scholarly tendency. Tomastine II suspected that the province had begun to fail during that particular ancestor’s reign. Still he liked the ambiance of the room with its large fireplace and hide-covered armchairs. Beryl seemed to feel right at home behind the desk. She dipped her quill into the inkwell.
“Your message, my lord?”
“Write to our esteemed king that we will accept his invitation.”
“We, my lord?”
Mirwell smiled broadly. “Yes, we. Did you notice the date of the ball? Not long before the king’s annual hunt.”
“That’s what concerns me.”
“What better way to conquer than to be there to see it happen, eh?”
Beryl brought the message over for him to sign. He took the paper, and the hand that held it. He caressed her hand. The palm was well callused from using a sword, but the other side was soft and smooth, not riddled by the brown spots and tangle of green veins women his age were cursed with. She looked at him, stricken.
“As I said, you’ve a fair hand, my dear.” He released it and looked the letter over, ignoring her as she stepped away and clasped her hands behind her back. She stared straight ahead at nothing. “We shall have a fine time in Sacor City.”
“Yes, my lord.” Her voice was flat.
She took the message, slipped it into an envelope, and sealed it with red wax and the imprint of the two war hammers. She left the library, a bit hastily, Mirwell thought. We’ll see what comes of a visit to Sacor City.
He stood over his Intrigue board. He’d have to find its traveling case. Maybe he would have D’rang look for it. He picked up a red governor and a red soldier, and placed them in the court of the green king.
“I look forward to the hunt.”
RALLY
Karigan stepped out into the overcast morning, leading The Horse down the alley to the main street. The stableboy watched after them wistfully, probably hoping for another copper. He deserved it, Karigan reflected. The Horse gleamed despite the dullness of the day. She just could not afford to dip into her reserves for more coins, but she had made a point of praising the boy for his fine care.
The main street was still muddy. Townsfolk walked on wooden boards lined in front of nearly every building and storefront, but the boards didn’t help if one had to cross the street or veer off course. Women held their long skirts high, their faces in perpetual frowns as they trudged through the slop. Karigan grimaced herself as her foot sucked in the mud. The shine on The Horse’s coat would not last long.
She mounted to let The Horse deal with the mud, and they went in search of a food vendor. Shopkeepers were just opening their doors and throwing back shutters. A blacksmith fired up his forge and the roar of flame could be heard all the way out into the street. North could have been any town awakening, but this one was without refinement. She missed th
e cobbled streets of Selium.
She found a shop with cluttered shelves of baked and dried goods, coarse cloth, axes, knives, rope, handsaws, blankets, lamps, flour, sugar, lard . . . everything a town of this sort could use. She dismounted and hitched The Horse to a post in front of the shop. She scraped mud off her boots on an iron rung placed outside the doorway just for that purpose.
As she stepped inside, she heard a shout on the street. She peered through a window and watched a man, encumbered by two sacks, running through the mud, making little progress. He was pursued by another man whose white shopkeeper’s smock was splattered with mud.
“Come back with that, you thief!”
The shopkeeper, unencumbered, caught up with the other man, and jumped on him. The two fell into the muck, each grappling with the other. Passersby paused to watch the scene. A dagger flashed in the thief’s hand, and he struck down at the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper loosed a hollow wail that Karigan felt every inch up her spine. The thief had stabbed the shopkeeper, and no one had attempted to stop him.
The thief climbed to his feet, threw the two sacks over his shoulder, and walked away. Pedestrians ignored the thief and simply walked around the shopkeeper’s body as if it were no more than a rock obstructing their path.
Someone clucked his tongue behind Karigan. A burly, bald-pated man in a white smock shook his head, his jowls wobbling. “Old Mael didn’t take any precautions.” He patted a short sword sheathed at his side. Anywhere else, a shopkeeper wearing a sword was an unusual sight.
“Isn’t anyone going to do anything?” Karigan demanded.
“Old Garl will be along to pick up his body,” the shopkeeper said.
“But the thief—”
“Who’s gonna run after him? You?”
Karigan blushed with shame.