THE BLUE DRESS

Tall grasses whipped against the Green Rider’s legs as he ran. He cast terrified glances over his shoulder, his breaths harsh and ragged, and punctuated by the thud of hoofbeats behind him. He caught his toe in a hole and plunged to the ground. Desperately he tore at grass stalks to pull himself upright and continue his flight.

And still the hoofbeats followed at a steady, measured pace, never faltering, never slowing, coming inexorably, unrelentingly behind him.

A strangled cry of triumph erupted from the Rider’s throat as safety appeared just ahead. He hurled himself between the rails of the fence, sprawling at his captain’s feet.

“Well, that didn’t go very well, did it?” Laren Mapstone said.

On the other side of the fence, the source of Ben’s terror gazed down at him with big brown eyes and snorted.

“And I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” Laren told the gelding.

Robin flicked his ears and shook the reins, then dropped his nose into the grass to graze.

Laren gazed down at Ben who labored for breath, more from fright, she thought, than exertion. One day he’d have to get over his irrational fear of horses—he had to! What was a Green Rider without a mount? A Green Pedestrian? She had no idea from where the young man’s fear originated. As a mender, he tended the messiest and goriest of injuries without hesitation, but healthy, intelligent horses inspired terror in him. Most Riders loved horses.

Karigan strolled across the pasture, following Ben’s path and plucking at the tips of grasses as she went. When she reached Robin, she grabbed his reins and jerked his nose out of the grass. Green slobber dripped from his bit.

“We did better today,” Karigan said. “Ben actually got his toe in the stirrup to mount.”

Laren supposed it was progress, but she didn’t feel as optimistic as Karigan sounded. She was getting used to having Karigan around to help out while Mara, her recently promoted Chief Rider, continued to recover from the horrific burns she had received when fire had destroyed Rider barracks during the summer. Karigan took care of Rider accounts and scheduling, and lent a hand with settling in the new Riders that seemed to be appearing on her step weekly now—Laren couldn’t help but smile at the thought of more Riders to help fill their ranks.

“We were doing fine,” Karigan continued, giving Robin a stern look, “until this one decided to knock Ben off balance.”

Robin stamped when a fly alighted on his shoulder, his expression guileless. Laren squinted at him, not believing it for an instant. He looked like he had enjoyed himself while “chasing” Ben.

“I think you’re done here for the day,” Laren told Ben. “You may go report to Master Destarion for the afternoon.”

Ben’s relief was palpable. “Yes, Captain.” He patted some dust off his trousers and strode toward the castle, where he was due for a shift in the mending wing.

“What are we going to do with him?” Laren wondered, watching him go.

Karigan stroked Robin’s neck. “Give him time, I suppose. He dedicated himself to a life of mending the sick and injured, and he’s trained for years, only to have a wrinkle thrown into his plans, unforeseen and unasked for.”

Laren eyed Karigan sharply, knowing what a struggle it had been for her to leave behind her life as a merchant to answer the Rider call, and how much she had resented it. But Laren could find no resentment in Karigan’s demeanor now. She was merely stating fact.

Something behind Laren caught Karigan’s attention. Laren followed her gaze to find two finely dressed gentlemen approaching, one bearing packages wrapped in linen and secured with strings.

“We seek Karigan G’ladheon. Might you be she?” the first man, a stout fellow, asked. It was clear the other was a servant, for though his clothing was fine, it lacked the ornamentation of the lead fellow’s.

“What is he up to now?” Karigan muttered under her breath. She cleared her throat and said more loudly, “I’m Karigan G’ladheon.”

The stout fellow, out of breath from the short walk across castle grounds, assessed Karigan for a moment with a raised eyebrow, then placed his hand over his heart and bowed. “Good day, mistress. I am Akle Mundoy, of Clan Mundoy, from the guild, at your service.”

Laren frowned. He could only mean the merchants guild. The “he” Karigan wondered about had to be her father, Stevic G’ladheon, one of the premier merchants of Sacoridia.

Karigan copied Mundoy’s bow. “And I’m at yours.”

Mundoy nodded. “I bring you a message from your esteemed father, and one from Bernardo Coyle, of the Coyle merchanting family in Rhovanny.”

Karigan stared in disbelief at the two envelopes Mundoy passed her, one sealed with a blue and purple ribbon Laren recognized immediately, having opened enough letters from Stevic G’ladheon herself.

“And there are gifts,” Mundoy added, gesturing at his servant. “My man Reston will bear them to your chambers, if you like.”

“Er, chamber,” Karigan corrected. “Thank you, no. I’ll—” Then she glanced at Robin.

“Let me take him,” Laren said, and Karigan gratefully handed over the reins and slipped through the fence rails.

Laren sensed some undercurrent here, that this merchant, Mundoy, was making judgment on Clan G’ladheon based on Karigan’s appearance and circumstances. Why was she uniformed? Where was her servant? Only one chamber? Appearances must be just as important to merchants as to nobles. If Karigan appeared anything less than prosperous, rumors would spread across the lands, perhaps damaging the clan’s image.

“You’ve a servant to convey these?” Mundoy asked.

Karigan retained a pleasant expression, though Laren could tell it was forced. “I will see to the packages personally.” She addressed the servant rather than his master.

“They are an armful, but not overly heavy, mistress,” Reston assured her.

Karigan took them into her arms and Mundoy said, “Reston will return tomorrow for your reply to Master Coyle’s message. Good day.”

Mundoy struck off, his faithful servant close on his heels, Karigan glowering after the pair.

“Fish merchant,” she muttered. Then she turned to Laren. “May I be excused?”

Laren nodded her assent and Karigan trotted off toward the castle. Absently she stroked Robin’s neck. “What do you suppose that was all about?”

“I can’t believe it,” Karigan fumed a few hours later. She held the dress up to her shoulders so Mara could fully see it. It was made of deep, sapphire blue velvet patterned with leaves. Depending on the light and fold of the fabric, it took on the hue of midnight blue. The sleeves were puffed and slashed to reveal blue silk, and silver thread glistened in the sunlight beaming through the narrow window.

Mara, propped against a pile of pillows on her bed, smiled. “It brings out your eyes. It’s gorgeous.”

“But—” Karigan frowned, realizing how petty she must sound. It was deceptive to stand here next to Mara, for her near side appeared unchanged and unmarred, but when she gazed at Mara straight on, half her face looked like melted, puckered wax, and the hair on that side of her head grew back in crazy, curly patches. Much of the right side of her body had been burned. Only Ben’s intervention, the use of his magical healing ability, had helped Mara survive the wounds and her ensuing illness. In fact, the speed with which she was recovering was remarkable, and Ben’s ability had diminished some of the disfigurement.

“Yes, it’s gorgeous,” Karigan admitted. Her father had spared no expense on this dress and had sent along additional funds so she could have it properly fitted. It was more the intent behind the gift than the actual dress that concerned her. She fell into the chair next to Mara’s bed and let the dress blanket her legs.

“And so who is this Braymer Coyle?” Mara asked. “Is he handsome?”

Karigan sighed. “I’ve no idea. We were children last time we met. His father, like mine, is a textile merchant, but from Rhovanny; in fact he’s one of my father’s leading competitors. Braymer is the heir to the family business.”

Mara raised an eyebrow that no longer existed. “I see. So this is about more than two old friends getting their children together.”

Karigan nodded. “Yes. It’s about two middle-aged men concerned about their legacies and expanding their textile empires.” She rolled her eyes. “If Braymer and I get along, they are undoubtedly hoping for a–a marriage alliance.”

“And here I thought nobles were the only ones who worried about such things.”

“It isn’t the first time my father has tried to find a suitable match for me, though he’d never force it on me the way some would. But this—” and she rumpled the dress in emphasis “—this is serious.”

An amused smile formed on Mara’s lips, and there was humor in her eyes Karigan had not seen in a long while. “Much more serious than adventures in Blackveil and visitations by spirits of the dead?”

“Thank you for putting it in perspective for me.”

“My pleasure. I should think an afternoon out in that beautiful dress, and on the arm of a wealthy man, a nice change of pace for you from cleaning out the new Rider wing. New faces, different sights.”

Karigan took Mara’s unburned hand into her own. “I’m sorry—I’m not thinking. Who am I to complain?” Mara had not left the mending wing since the night of the fire, and rarely left her room as she healed.

“Karigan G’ladheon, don’t be silly. Your visit here brightens my day, and gives me things to think about other than my treatments. Don’t worry about me—I’ll soon be out of here, and Captain Mapstone is already keeping me busy with paperwork.” She patted a pile on her bedside table. “You went through so much this summer, and you have seemed so sad of late. You deserve a rest day, an afternoon out, and I want you to come back and tell me everything.”

So Karigan hadn’t been able to hide anything from Mara after all. Yes, she had been sad, and angry, but for reasons she would never explain. Not even to Mara. “I can’t expect it will be very exciting. We’re going to a tea room down on Gryphon Street and then to the Sacor City War Museum.”

Karigan left the mending wing for one of the main castle corridors, the bundle of velvet dress spilling over her arms. Not so long ago all she had desired was to follow in her father’s footsteps as a merchant and she had resented the Rider call for changing the course of her life. And now she resented her father for trying to draw her back?

She thought he had finally understood that for the time being, she served as a Green Rider, a king’s messenger, and it left no room in her life for a role as a merchant. And now he was trying to marry her off? Not in so many words, of course. The pretense was that she was to welcome Braymer Coyle on his first excursion to Sacor City. This was reinforced by a polite request from Braymer’s father that she show his son the city, and the gift that had accompanied it—a delicate silver necklace that matched the silver threads of her new dress.

She snorted. Their fathers had been in cahoots.

Well, she would take Mara’s advice and just relax and enjoy the change of pace. A quiet change of pace, she decided. No uniform, no sword, no enemies.

And Mara was right: she had been sad.

Her progress was hampered by a gaggle of young noblewomen clogging the corridor. With the announcement of King Zachary’s betrothal to Lady Estora, Coutre relations had descended upon the castle from all directions and were still coming, undoubtedly emptying the whole of Coutre Province.

The women were laughing and in high spirits. Karigan marveled at how the announcement of a wedding could turn people into ninnies. The fact that it was the king’s wedding didn’t help matters—the foolishness extended across the entire country.

Moving at the core of the finery and laughter was one who outshone them all, with her sweep of golden hair and statuesque figure. Lady Estora Coutre did not come across as silly or foolish—far from it. Rather she was serene, and while others giggled, she gave only a distant smile. It was almost as if she moved in a different world than they did.

Lady Estora was reputed to be the greatest beauty of the lands, and many anxious suitors had come and gone, had been turned away by her father who had settled for nothing less than the high king as the bridegroom for his firstborn daughter.

At that moment, Estora turned, as if sensing Karigan’s gaze, and caught her eyes. Karigan clutched her dress to her chest and sucked in a breath.

“Karigan?” Estora said.

Some of the gaggle paused to see whom she addressed.

Karigan exhaled, turned on her heel, and struck off in the opposite direction.

“How rude,” one of the noblewomen loudly commented. “What do you want with a commoner of that ilk anyway?”

Karigan never heard Estora’s reply. They had been friends, but ever since the betrothal announcement, Karigan had been unable to speak with her, or even to face her.

She took a long, circuitous route through the servants’ quarter of the castle, bypassing cooks and laundresses and runners. Here she felt comfortable and inconspicuous among her own kind. There was no chance she would run into Estora again, and there was especially no chance of encountering King Zachary.

She’d not gone before King Zachary since…that night. The starry night he had expressed his love for her atop the castle roof. He had chosen to tell her his feelings even as the ink on the marriage contract with Lord Coutre was drying.

Why had she fallen for her monarch, one who was unobtainable for the likes of her? His timing had been abysmal, and even as she yearned to be held in his arms, she wished he had said nothing to her at all. Maybe then she could have gotten through this whole marriage ordeal without hurting so much. If he truly cared, he would have kept his feelings to himself.

It was next to impossible not to feel pain with all the reminders of the betrothal around the castle; all the talk she overheard about wedding plans, of the children Zachary and Estora would produce. Even Karigan’s fellow Riders were caught up in the excitement.

It drowned out more important matters. It wasn’t so long ago that the lands had been threatened by a presence in Blackveil Forest which had been no less than the shadow of Mornhavon the Black, an old and deadly enemy. Had everyone forgotten already, amid all the wedding foolishness, that sometime in the future he would be back, and angry in the extreme?

She was grinding her teeth by the time she reached the lower sections of the castle. It didn’t help that Alton, whom she considered a dear friend, had decided he hated her for some reason she couldn’t fathom. She would never understand men. They were incomprehensible, and she did not hold out much hope for Braymer Coyle.

Karigan sighed as she stepped into the Rider wing. It was part of a more ancient section of the castle, and here the stonework was rougher, the walls closer, and the arched ceiling lower. Long abandoned by the Green Riders, and by everyone else for that matter, it had cleaned up nicely, but it would never replace the old barracks that had housed the king’s messengers for two hundred years before fire demolished it.

Someone had seen to hanging bright tapestries along the corridor walls. She would have liked to enlarge the arrow slits that served as windows in each of the tiny chambers, but was unable to for reasons of defense. Overall, despite the improvements that had been made, it was still a dark, gloomy place, but she had to admit that it was getting better. Especially with all the life the new Riders brought to it.

Even now, Ty Newland stood with arms folded, overseeing Fergal Duff, a new Rider, and Yates Cardell, a not-so-new Rider, move an awkward and rather heavy wardrobe down the corridor. The two grunted with effort and sweated profusely, their rolled-up sleeves revealing tautly corded muscles. Ty in contrast, looked as cool and impeccable as usual. The others called him “Rider Perfect” behind his back, but Karigan suspected that if he knew, he’d be rather pleased.

“Good afternoon, Karigan,” Ty said.

“Hello.”

Fergal, upon seeing her, straightened, which shifted the load of the wardrobe onto Yates, who issued a garbled expletive.

“Hello, Rider G’ladheon,” Fergal said, oblivious to Yates’ strain.

He was maybe all of fifteen years old, and full of the bright innocence of one who had not been a Green Rider long. It amazed her how eager the novice Riders were about their new lives and the prospect of meeting danger in the course of their work. As part of their training, they heard about the legends and history of the king’s messengers—the little that was known, anyway. Quickly becoming part of the recent history were accounts of Karigan’s own exploits. She had caught more than one wide-eyed gaze cast in her direction from among the new Riders. Several even paused in their own weapons practice to watch her train with the fearsome Arms Master Drent.

Another male not high on Karigan’s happy list. He had insisted on continuing to train her, and unfortunately, Captain Mapstone agreed.

“Fergal!” Yates cried in a strangled tone. “Pay attention!”

“Yes, sir.” The young Rider again took on more of the weight of the wardrobe.

“Sir?” Karigan asked Ty.

“The young are impressionable, and at the moment, Fergal’s deference is keeping Yates cooperative.”

Karigan shook her head and ducked into her chamber. It just wasn’t the same as her old room at the barracks that had overlooked the green of pasture and grazing messenger horses, but it was quiet.

“Ow!” Yates howled. “That was, and I put the emphasis on was, my toe!”

Mostly quiet, she amended. She shut the door and hung her dress in the dark depths of her own monstrous wardrobe. Garth had found this, and other royal castoffs with which to furnish the new Rider wing, in a storage room somewhere in the castle.

The rich blue and tailoring of her dress looked odd hanging among all the green of her uniforms, like something from another place, another world. And she supposed it was. Her world was now that of the Green Riders, not that of a merchant, and certainly not that of a young woman caught up in more ordinary pursuits, such as attracting a profitable marriage alliance.

The world of the Green Riders was a dangerous one. Riders were not particularly long lived, and Karigan had come close to losing her own life more than once. She had lost count of how many Riders died violent deaths since she had been called. Her own brooch once belonged to a Rider she found impaled with two black arrows and dying in the road.

If she survived her tenure as a Rider, she knew that other world would be out there waiting for her, and that she’d have incredible tales to tell her grandchildren.

The bell down in the city rang out four hour, and she sat on the edge of her narrow bed, gazing into the open wardrobe. The silvery threads of her dress did not sparkle as brightly as the gold threads of the winged horse insignia on the sleeves of her uniform.

Not one to seek sanctuary, Karigan found it now in the dim light that filtered into her room through her narrow window. Here she heard no words about weddings, nor did she have to look upon preparations. No one was trying to kill her at the moment, and she hadn’t even seen the hint of a ghost in a couple months. More important, there was no sign of trouble at the wall. So far. Perhaps her days of danger were over, and some future Rider would deal with Mornhavon the Black. Maybe Alton would fix the wall before Mornhavon returned.

A sort of contentment blanketed her, and she fell asleep, dreaming of walking through a garden in a deep green velvet dress, which sparkled in the sunshine with threads of golden fire.