First Rider's Call (4 page)

Lady Penburn referred to Karigan’s Rider magic, and while the lady had been briefed on the “special abilities” of each Rider attached to the delegation, Karigan knew that among the few who were aware of Rider magics, most failed to comprehend their limits. They only recalled the stories of the terrible mages who had wreaked havoc and destruction during the Long War; mages who possessed immeasurable powers. This was so ingrained in their minds that magic in any form was regarded with suspicion. They did not differentiate between the great destructive magics of the past, and the humble abilities Riders possessed.

“No, my lady,” Karigan finally answered, “my ability does not run along those lines.”

Lady Penburn looked pleased by the answer and she turned back to Ty. “And you
felt
nothing, Rider Newland?”

“Nothing unusual. The place was odd because of the tomb, but nothing more than that.”

Lady Penburn nodded in satisfaction.

Karigan sighed. It was only natural, she supposed, that Lady Penburn should dismiss her words and support Ty’s. Ty was a senior Rider, and Karigan was still perceived as the most inexperienced of the four who accompanied the delegation. She was even beginning to wonder if her feelings about the clearing had been just a bout of nerves.

Ereal squeezed her shoulder. “Well done,” she whispered. “It was good of you to speak up.”

“Brogan,” Lady Penburn said, “I appreciate that you bounders have your hands full in this wilderness. It is true these lands have a long past. We’ve seen the relics of that history, and this clearing appears to have yielded yet another.

“However, I will not tolerate any member of this delegation falling prey to fear wrought by superstition.” Her eyes seared those around her, and lingered on both Karigan and Brogan for what seemed like hours rather than seconds. “We have enough of what could be a truly dangerous situation to concern ourselves about. That clearing sounds defensible to me should we find ourselves attacked by groundmites, a rallying place where we could stand shoulder to shoulder in strong lines rather than being scattered throughout the forest. That is where we shall set up camp for the night.”

“M’lady,” Brogan said, “you brought me along as a guide, and I feel it my duty to warn you about such a place—”

“Enough! I have heard your warning and made my decision.” Lady Penburn’s expression brooked no argument. “We’ve much to accomplish before nightfall. I will hear not another word of superstition or bad feelings. Captain Ansible, I want you to get this delegation moving. We’ve long hours ahead of us.”

As the group dissolved, each to his or her own duty, Karigan grabbed Ty’s arm. “Are you sure you didn’t feel anything in that clearing?”

“I’m sure.” He tugged his arm free of her grasp and straightened his sleeve. “Karigan, I honestly think you ought to heed Lady Penburn’s words about superstition. People are worried enough by the threat of groundmites. Whatever lies beneath that cairn is dead and buried.”

Karigan watched his back as he strode off, feeling somehow betrayed. Maybe he was right, and maybe she was suffering from nerves. But still . . .

Brogan sidled over to her, perhaps finding in her a kindred spirit. “I don’t like this one bit.” Worry lines furrowed across his weathered features. “If people were meant to be near that clearing, why place stones of warding around it?”

A CAMPFIRE, A NIGHTGOWN, AND A SONG

Karigan watched in dismay as Lady Penb urn’s tent went up beside the cairn, soon followed by those of the other nobles. The entire delegation could not fit within the clearing, so the rest set up nearby in the surrounding woods.

I am not superstitious,
Karigan kept telling herself as she walked away.
I am not superstitious . . .
And she was not—far from it in fact, but the sensation of dread had come over her again when they arrived at the clearing, and she found it rather disturbing to be the only one bothered by it.
Not the only one,
she amended. Brogan the bounder stayed well away from the clearing, making the sign of the crescent moon before disappearing into the woods to find his own camping place.

She carried her gear as far from the clearing as she dared, while still remaining within the guarded perimeter. She chose a place considered undesirable by most near the horses and pack mules. It might be smelly, she thought, but it was far more comfortable than being next to the clearing.

She started a cheerful little fire for herself. Others sparked up around the encampment as dark settled in. One fortunate aspect of the whole undertaking was the availability of deadwood so that no one in the delegation was deprived of warmth and light during the night.

“Not a bad fire for a merchant.”

Karigan looked up surprised and pleased to see Bard with his bedroll slung over his shoulder, bearing two steaming bowls. “Mind if I join you? I bring food—if you can call it that.”

“Yes, please,” Karigan said, gratified by his show of support.

Bard passed her a bowl. She peered into it and sniffed dubiously. “Gruel. Again.” And with a burnt wedge of pan bread sticking in it. She nibbled on the coarse bread, frowned in distaste, and set the bowl aside.

Bard dumped his bedroll on the ground and sat across the fire from her. “Lady Penburn’s people talked about doing some hunting for fresh meat tomorrow morning, though as far as I can tell the nobles are eating well enough.”

Karigan had been under the impression that on a well provisioned delegation the meals would prove far better fare than what she was accustomed to when on an ordinary message errand, but she’d been wrong. The Green Riders, the king’s own special messengers, had been lumped together with common soldiers and servants, and were served accordingly.

The two Riders spoke quietly of inconsequential things while Bard ate his gruel. Karigan itched to ask him what he felt or did not feel about the clearing, but she gave him his peace while he ate. When he finished, he took out a sewing kit and attempted to thread a needle by firelight so he might fix the rip in his sleeve.

“You’re going to burn off your eyebrows if you get any closer to the fire,” Karigan warned him.

“Match the top of my head then, I expect.” He patted the thinning spot at his crown and smiled.

“Bard,” Karigan said, deciding to broach the subject that had been plaguing her, “what do you think of the clearing?”

It was some moments before he spoke, so focused was he on trying to find the eye of the needle with his thread, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth. Karigan waited in suspense, seeking some validation of her feelings.

“Can’t say I much care for the idea of camping next to some old tomb, though I’m sure it would make for a good embellishment in our report.”

Bard, Karigan knew, tried to make all his reports as entertaining as possible for Captain Mapstone. His philosophy was that since the captain rarely left the castle grounds these days, she ought to at least have the vicarious experience of being on a message errand. Karigan wondered if it had the intended effect, or made the captain miss the open road all the more.

Lines formed across Bard’s forehead and he squinted at the needle. Suddenly he smiled in triumph. “I did it!” He showed her the threaded needle to prove it, then took up his shortcoat and jabbed the needle into the sleeve. “As for my sensing anything about the clearing as you seem to, I don’t know. I don’t like it, but I don’t feel it as strongly as you do. That doesn’t mean your feelings are wrong about this place.

“I’d guess,” he continued, “that there are all manner of strange magical relics like the clearing throughout the lands, and maybe Lady Penburn was onto something when she brought up your ability. Maybe the wards resonated with your magic for some reason, the way the wards around Rider waystations dampen our magic.”

“This is different,” Karigan said.

Bard shrugged. “I’m not surprised. Likely the magic is different, but if it sets you at ease, look at it this way: that tomb has lain quietly for several hundreds of years at least. I doubt anything will change by the time the encampment has picked up and moved north by tomorrow morning.”

Bard was right, Karigan thought. She was letting it all get to her far too much. It still did not explain, however, why
she
was more sensitive to it than the others.

“Ouch!” Bard sucked on his index finger. “I am far too clumsy to be using such a sharp object.”

“That’s what Arms Master Gresia keeps trying to tell you about your swordplay.”

“Hah! A point for you, my dear, and no pun intended. Are you any good at this?” He thrust his sewing at her, and she saw his stitches were rather haphazard.

“Sorry,” Karigan said. “My aunts tried to teach me to sew, but I’m afraid I was hopeless.”

“What? You the daughter of a textile merchant and surrounded by all that cloth—and you can’t sew?”

“I was much too busy getting under the cargo master’s feet or playing down by the wharves in Corsa Harbor. My friends and I liked to look for crabs under rocks or sea stars on the pilings.”

Bard snorted. “That’s a good place for a child. Corsa Harbor is as rough as any waterfront I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, my father’s people kept me out of trouble, but my unladylike behavior scandalized my aunts.” Karigan sat tall and prim to take on the demeanor of one of her aunts. “ ‘Child, you are the heir of the premier merchant of Sacoridia, not some urchin to be running barefoot about the docks among sailors and other riffraff.’ That’s what my Aunt Brini would say.”

“And what did Aunt Brini think of you becoming a Rider?”

“Not much.” It was as though someone had lit a fire beneath a hornet’s nest when all four aunts heard of her decision. “My aunts and father grew up dirt poor on Black Island, helping my grandfather haul fish. It was a rough life, so I’ve been reminded time and again. Now that they’re living very well under my father’s roof, they see me only as childish and ungrateful, spoiling their expectations that I should create a respectable marriage alliance with another powerful merchant clan.”

She closed her eyes against the memory of the bitter arguments. For all her aunts’ upset, facing her father had been the hardest.

“Your mother?” Bard asked.

“She died when I was very little.”

He nodded. “Mine, too. In childbirth, actually. I think she would have been rather proud of me working in the king’s service.”

Karigan brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen into her face. She had so little recollection of her mother, Kariny, that she had no idea of what Kariny would think of her being a Green Rider. Karigan only knew that it was not at all what she had intended to do with her life, and for all her aunts’ angst, their vision of her future had been more like her own from a very young age: to follow in her father’s footsteps and carry on the name and work of Clan G’ladheon. She wasn’t, however, too sure about the marriage alliance part of it.

“The calling to be a Rider can force upon you a path in life not of your own choosing,” Bard mused, as if an echo of her thoughts. “After years of hard work as a cooper, I had finally hoarded away enough currency for a term’s tuition for minstrel training at Selium . . . and then I heard the call.” He chuckled and shook his head at the irony. “Even though the king has since promised me a place in Selium when my time with the Riders ends, it still has been a delay to achieving my dreams.” He paused, falling into deep thought. Then quietly he added, “Despite it all, I do not regret this life.”

Karigan had struggled against the call for a very long time so she might continue in the life she had chosen for herself, but the call had chipped away at her will, almost torturously, the hoofbeats always like a rhythm in the deep regions of her mind and heralding visions of the freedom of the ride. She would awaken some nights sweating and feeling as if she must saddle Condor immediately and heed the call to ride, as if her life depended upon it.

To fight the call, she had tried ridding herself of her brooch, knowing it somehow bound her to the messenger service, but whether she hid it deep in a drawer or tried burying it in the woods, she inevitably found herself wearing it by day’s end without memory of having pinned it on. Magical objects, she had once been told, often had minds of their own.

As time wore on, her behavior grew more eccentric. The color green came to dominate her wardrobe by no intention of her own, and it led her father to the conclusion that she was inordinately fond of the color. The struggle also left her irritable. “What’s eating at you?” her father had asked in exasperation after she lost patience with a servant one day. She never yelled at servants. Normally.

How could she explain to a man who, like so many other Sacoridians, held a deep aversion to magic, that magic was trying to rule her life?

Instead, she had said, “You never let me accompany the barges or wagon trains.” She believed that getting out of Corsa and being on the road or a river beneath the open sky might ease the call gnawing at her soul. “It’s always, ‘Karigan, inventory storehouse five,’ or ‘Karigan, schedule next month’s routes and deliveries.’ ” She had breathed hard with the unexpected fury that had built up in her chest. “You always leave the dullest chores for me.”