What had been in the captain’s warning look? And now the king gazed at her. Boredly? Expectantly? She fidgeted and cast her eyes to the floor.
“Clan G’ladheon?” he asked. The abruptness of it caused Karigan’s heart to leap. “A bought clanship if I’ve been informed correctly.”
Karigan’s cheeks heated. “A clanship your grandmother sanctioned.” She nearly bit her tongue. It was just like her to speak without thinking.
Zachary blinked like a somnolent lion. “Captain Mapstone has told me something of your journey. Of course, my counselors and I witnessed your unusual entrance.” He paused, stroking his beard. “But, that’s all irrelevant at the moment. Do you play Intrigue, Karigan G’ladheon?”
“I, uh ...” The change in topic caused her tongue to stumble. What did he mean her journey was irrelevant? “I’ve played Intrigue.”
“Good.”
The king clapped for a servant. A chair was brought for Karigan, and a table was set between them, the game placed on top.
“It’s not as good without a Triad,” the king said. “Perhaps I should have had the captain stay, but this will do. I’ve not played for some time.”
“But—”
“Green or blue pieces?”
“Green, but—”
The king chuckled gleefully. “Perfect.”
Karigan then realized what color she had chosen and groaned. Why did the king want to play a game? Why was her journey irrelevant? He actually stepped down from his throne chair and sat on the bottom step of the dais, and set up the game for two players. The pieces were little wooden figures. Karigan thought the king would possess a game made of silver and gold and jewels, but his set was far cruder than any she would have imagined.
“Now roll the dice, and we will see who possesses the stronger strategy.”
The sleeping lion came to life as the game progressed. The king managed to counter any move Karigan made. Her pieces were pushed back, captured, and “killed.” He lured her spies into fatal traps and goaded her knights into fights they could not possibly win.
The fresco paintings of Zachary’s ancestors glared down at Karigan from the ceiling. She clasped and unclasped her hands under Zachary’s relentless attack, as each of her knights was killed by common infantrymen. Her mind screamed that this was not what the king should be doing, that he must be insane to want to play games rather than hear of her journey. And yet there they sat, he on the dais step, she on the chair, each the reflection of the other as they concentrated on the game, as the sunlight penetrated the throne room at a greater slant, then began to recede like a blade withdrawn.
After two hours, Karigan sat limp in her chair. Zachary knocked her king off the board with a flick of his forefinger, and frowned at her. “You told me you’ve played Intrigue before.”
“I have.”
“That was one of the sloppiest games I’ve ever seen. You had messengers. Green Riders use special talents. Why didn’t you give your messengers special talents?”
“It’s a game. You can’t just give pieces special abilities. I mean, the rules—”
“Listen to me, Karigan G’ladheon.” The king bent forward, his face just inches from hers. “You can’t play at Intrigue and expect to win by adhering to the rules. Use what is available to you. If I did not,” he added in a whisper, “my portrait would have been painted on the ceiling long ago. Do you see the space there behind the late king, my father?”
Karigan followed his gaze toward the ceiling where King Amigast was painted beside Queen Isen. His eyes were solemn and almond-shaped like Zachary’s. A long blue robe fell to his feet, and while most of the other figures on the ceiling held weapons or scepters, King Amigast held an open book. On his other side was nothing but empty ceiling, a blank canvas. A chill tingled in Karigan’s spine.
“That space,” Zachary said, “is for me.”
He removed a velveteen pouch from beneath his heather mantle of state, and handed it to her. She loosed the drawstrings, and the scent of bayberry drifted to her. Inside, she discovered with joy, were the items the Weapon had confiscated from her, except for Joy Overway’s brooch. She removed the moonstone which ignited in a silver blaze at her touch.
Zachary squinted through the intense light. “Curious. That stone would not light for anyone else, not even the Eletian.”
Karigan dropped it into the velveteen pouch and reluctantly passed it back, but the king shook his head.
“You are to keep those things, they are yours. Captain Mapstone says your stories are true, and by the special nature of her ability, I believe her. Your trinkets are your tools. Use what is available to you. I see no threat to me from you.”
Karigan relaxed and clasped the pouch in both hands. “Thank you,” she said with a relieved breath.
Zachary nodded, and patted his knee. Finder jumped into his lap, tail wagging furiously. The king absently stroked Finder and gazed at nothing, his eyes unfocused. Eventually he said, “The sequence of events that have led you here are quite remarkable. A schoolgirl who can’t even play a decent game of Intrigue. The daughter of a wealthy merchant . . .”
Karigan stiffened again, anger prickling inside. “Sire, for one thing, I don’t know exactly how you get your information except from people who risk their lives to deliver it to you. By chance, I was one of those people. Yes, a schoolgirl. Yes, a merchant’s daughter. My life was threatened, I was held captive, and I went through a lot to get here. I am tired of being treated like some criminal for doing my best for Sacoridia.
“I might suggest, Excellency, that you leave behind your stone walls and see those whom you rule. Take a look at your realm. The North Road is in terrible condition. How do you expect healthy commerce up north when merchant trains can hardly make it down the road? And what about the outlaws who attack caravans, homesteads, and the village of North?
“Take a look at the people who live in the borderlands in fear of groundmites, not to mention any strange creatures that might come from Blackveil Forest. The eagle, Softfeather, told me to tell you there is a breach in the D’Yer Wall. Your people, Excellency, are crying out for protection from you, and fewer taxes, and—” Karigan stopped and swallowed. Speaking her mind to Dean Geyer was one thing, but speaking it to a king was another. The dean could suspend her, but the king could do much worse.
Zachary laughed. He laughed! Finder sat up and barked. A light ignited in the king’s eyes. “Many people hate me and my policies,” he said. “It is refreshing to hear a new voice, though. You will make a fine Green Rider.”
“I’m not—”
“Dismissed.”
“But—”
“Dismissed until tomorrow night’s ball. I expect you to be there. In fact, I command it.”
Karigan opened her mouth to protest again, but the firm hand of a Weapon on her shoulder prompted her to clamp her mouth shut. She stood up on shaky legs and bowed awkwardly, but she wasn’t sure the king even knew she was still there. He continued to stroke Finder’s back, his thoughts haunting some faraway place.
Karigan left the throne room as fast as possible without running. When she cleared the huge double doors, she brushed into some crusty old man wearing a bear pelt. She mumbled an apology, and rushed away, intent on leaving the king far behind.
Karigan burst into her room, and caught Captain Mapstone in mid-pace. “Finally,” the older woman said. “Tell me what happened.”
Exhausted by her afternoon with the king, Karigan dropped down on her bed and groaned.
“I see I won’t get anything from you until you’re nourished with some food and drink.” She tracked down the food herself, bringing it to Karigan faster than anyone else could have.
Between mouthfuls of pastry and sausage washed down with cold cider, Karigan told all that transpired in the throne room. By the time she finished, the captain was pacing again.
“Tell me again what you said to the king about his policies.”
Karigan heaved a tired sigh
and repeated that part of the story. Captain Mapstone paused, her expression bemused. She rubbed her chin, and smiling, said, “You told him to . . . You told him to . . .” Tickled by the thought of some common girl standing up to the king, she fell into convulsive laughter.
Karigan scowled. It wasn’t unlike the king’s own response, and one she hardly expected from Captain Mapstone.
Captain Mapstone wiped tears from her eyes. “You’ve got spunk, girl. I wouldn’t be surprised if you made it to Sacor City in one piece on pure spunk alone.” She scraped the chair out from under the table and dropped wearily into it. Her expression turned stern again, yet her eyes still danced in amusement. “I haven’t laughed like that in a hundred years. And don’t you let on to the others that I did either.” She sighed. “It wouldn’t fit their image of me.”
Karigan crossed her arms. “I don’t find it particularly funny.”
Captain Mapstone gazed at her levelly. “Considering the king didn’t lop your head off himself, you shouldn’t complain. I’m not sure I comprehend his behavior either, though I’ve known him since he was a boy. I was certain he would want to hear more from you. Why play Intrigue?”
“Does this mean I can go home now?”
Captain Mapstone shook her head. “The king expects you to attend the ball tomorrow evening. That’s another curious thing. Why invite you?”
Karigan glowered. “I don’t care. I just want to get out of these green clothes and go home. I’ve done enough here. You can’t hold me here against my will.”
The captain’s face grew unreadable.“There are a few things you must understand, Karigan. First of all, you are not being held here. At least, not anymore. The king requested that you attend his ball—quite an honor and one that few Green Riders experience. Secondly, you carried F’ryan Coblebay’s message here in a way no Green Rider will ever forget. We may not understand why such a message, seemingly unimportant, was so pursued by the Mirwellians and the Shadow Man, but it doesn’t lessen your deed. Thirdly, we would like you to stay with us for a while so we can understand the Wild Ride.” Then she added very quietly, “And you’ve the brooch.”
Karigan stood up, the wooden floor groaning beneath her feet. She peered out the window. The last rays of sun caressed the pasture where Mel was out banging on a bucket of grain to lure the horses in for the night. “I don’t care about the brooch. You can keep it.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. It has accepted you.”
Karigan turned on the captain. “Everyone keeps referring to me as a Green Rider. I am not a Green Rider and I don’t want to be a Green Rider. I just want to go home. My father probably assumes I’m dead by now.”
“I dispatched a Rider upon your arrival to inform him otherwise.” Captain Mapstone rubbed her neck scar. “Whether you act as a Green Rider or not is up to you, but I’ll warn you now, that you will always hear the rhythm of hoofbeats in your dreams.” She stood brusquely to her feet. “I recommend you appear at the king’s ball as a Green Rider. Then, Karigan G’ladheon, you may go home as you will.” Without another word, she left.
Karigan looked out the window with a sigh. She would never get home at this rate, and things were only getting worse rather than better. She caught some movement near a tree about a hundred paces from her window. Weapon, she thought, but F’ryan Coblebay looked back at her, his features pained. Without movement, or the flick of an eyelash, he disappeared.
F’ryan Coblebay’s message had been delivered. Why did his ghost still follow her?
MIRWELL
“Let go of my arm.” Mirwell batted Beryl’s hands away. Normally he would enjoy her touch, but not now, and not here at the entrance to King Zachary’s throne chamber. Imagine that Greenie nearly knocking him over as if he were no more than a common servant! They had no respect for their betters. “I can make it on my own two feet,” he grumbled to his aide. It was bad enough having to lean on her for support all the way from the courtyard, down the long castle corridors, until they finally reached the great oak doors of the firebrand and crescent moon.
The herald was bearing the standard of Mirwell down the runner, announcing in high-pitched tones the arrival of Lord-Governor Tomastine II.
Mirwell laughed gruffly.
“What is it, my lord?” Beryl asked, stoic as ever.
“Look to the king, my dear. Either my vision has deteriorated greatly, or for the first time since His Excellency’s ascension to the throne, the bit—” He swallowed suddenly and amended, “Captain Mapstone isn’t by his side in my presence.” Mirwell glanced at the Weapons by the door to assess whether or not they had caught his near indiscretion, but they stood mute and glassy-eyed like wax figures in a diorama at the Sacor City War Museum. “Unnatural,” he muttered.
Beryl cast questioning eyes on him.
“The captain,” he said, “do you see her?”
“No, my lord. Your eyes haven’t failed you.”
“I thought not! Can’t get around as well as I used to, but I can see as well as any old owl.”
A shrill trumpet blast was their cue to make their way down the runner to the king’s throne.
Mirwell straightened his shoulders despite a back that protested after days of arduous travel, and cleared his throat. “Now remember,” he whispered to Beryl, “keep just a pace behind me, no slower, no faster. We’ll make it look natural, right? Make him wait some.” Mirwell adjusted the bear pelt on his shoulders, which he wore for state occasions no matter what the heat. It reminded all that he, Tomastine II, though he be old, was still the same man, the strong man, who with only a dagger, had slain a bear that would have killed a lesser man.
Mirwell made his way down the runner, slow and deliberately, as if carrying his weight with great dignity. He ignored the gravelly pain in his knee that intensified with each step, and he concealed the limp as best he could. The effort, combined with the heavy pelt, caused sweat to trickle down his temples.
Beryl, true to his command, remained precisely a pace behind him. He imagined her shoulders thrown back, the erect-ness of her spine, and the tilt of her chin all communicating: I am of Mirwell and I serve with pride. The very thought made his heart swell and a tear fill his eye, the same way the Arms Parade did on his birthday—Mirwell’s own provincial holiday. Oh, there were few sights so exhilarating as hundreds of columns of soldiers and horsemen with shining helms, marching and riding in precise formation down Mirwellton’s main thoroughfare.
The herald stood at attention catty-corner to the king’s throne, trumpet tucked under one arm, and the Mirwell banner supported on its ceremonial pike leaning against the other. Mirwell noted, with some surprise, a chair recently vacated, and a game of Intrigue set before the king.
“Your Excellency.” He touched his forehead and strained his back in a deep bow.
“Welcome, War Hammer.” The king used the traditional greeting and Mirwell was pleased. “Won’t you be seated? It will be easier for us to speak eye to eye.”
“As you wish.” It wasn’t true, of course. Mirwell would have to crane his neck to look at the king up on his dais, but it was better than having his knee suddenly buckle beneath him and send him sprawling on the floor. He suspected Zachary was well aware of his infirmity, whether he learned it from that mind-reading woman Mapstone, or deduced it from his own keen observations was another question, but the king’s craftiness impressed Mirwell. The excuse allowed him to rest while retaining his dignity.
The two exchanged the usual civilities: weather, travel, health, the state of the province. Zachary’s dog jumped from his lap and sniffed the hem of Mirwell’s bear pelt. It wheezed, then rejoined its master. It was beyond Mirwell how these little terriers had been such a menace to the groundmites during the Long War. He doubted they could even tree a bear, or retrieve a duck from a pond, but they probably had their uses.
“My aide, Major Spencer,” Mirwell said in introduction. He could almost feel the heat of her presence through the back of his ch
air. “She is new since last we met. Old Haryo at long last met his soldier’s final rest.” A good solid friend, Haryo. And more loyal than a dog. Mirwell had seen to it that his friend had received a most impressive funeral.
The king barely flicked an eyelash at Beryl. “I trust you will join us for the annual ball and hunt?” the king said.
“I wouldn’t think to miss it. About the only time I see Sacor City is at the King’s Spring Hunt, Excellency.” He would not miss it, indeed. After the hunt—or was massacre a better term?—Amilton would take the throne as king. Did Zachary suspect? His demeanor was as cool and distant as ever, and Mirwell’s own court spy had informed him that, though the message had gotten through, it said nothing about the assassination plans, and in fact, nothing to implicate Mirwell or Amilton, and no one was paying attention to the Greenie who had carried the message. A waste of time and effort, the pursuit of that Greenie, but better to be on the safe side.
But who knew what went on behind the king’s closed features? He had a card player’s face, even better than his father’s, and loads better than his brother’s. Amilton was as subtle as a herd of horses, but he would be all the easier to control. Mirwell bent over and picked up the game piece of the green king from the floor. Other pieces still stood in formation on the Intrigue board.
“Are you an Intrigue player?” the king asked.
Mirwell chuckled. “You see my interest! Well, yes, I admit the competitive streak runs through me. When the long winter runs dull, a game of Intrigue is in order. I see you soundly defeated your opponent in this game.”
Zachary bent down and scratched the dog behind its ear. “An unskilled opponent . . . No, rather, an uncommitted player.”
Mirwell grunted. “When you aren’t committed to the outcome of the game, there is no way you can win. It must have been a very disappointing match.”
“In some ways it was, but in other ways it was quite rewarding.”
Mirwell wondered at the king’s expression, for suddenly the card player’s facade fell away, and he saw a man who seemed amused and preoccupied about something. Whoever his opponent had been, he had caught the king’s interest. He set the green king on the board, on its side in the dead position, the way it should be.