THE GRANDGENT

Karigan held the knife blade before her as she took aim at her target, just as Arms Master Drent had instructed her. She knew she should have returned the throwing knives to him as she had after every session; she knew Drent believed her a danger to herself and others when handling them, but she wanted to perfect the art of knife throwing, and the only way to succeed was through practice, and if she could do so unseen without every other trainee watching her and avoid the humiliation, all the better.

Besides, who could she hurt in the middle of the forest? She ensured Fergal was safely inside the waystation cabin working on the assignments Ty sent with him, and she put the cabin between herself and the paddock where Condor and Sunny munched on hay. Everyone should be safe.

Her target was an old grain sack she found in the cabin that she stuffed with leaves, pine needles, and moss. She tied it to a stout white birch with peeling papery bark. Most of its leaves had yellowed and fallen, its branches crooked bones against the evergreen backdrop.

Squinting at the target in deep concentration, she drew her hand back and threw. The knife whistled tip over butt well wide and high of the target. It clattered somewhere in the upper branches of the pine, arousing the ire of resident squirrels who bounded to the end of a limb to harangue her. The knife thumped to the ground at the base of the tree.

“Sorry,” she told the squirrels. So not everyone was safe…

She drew the second knife from its boot sheath and rolled the well-balanced weapon from hand to hand, considering the target. Then, instead of taking so much time to aim or think about her technique, she swiftly threw it. It nicked the birch above the target.

“Yes!” she cried. She jumped up and down in triumph.

At some point Karigan noticed Fergal watching her display from the front step of the cabin. She froze. Irritated she’d been spied upon, she demanded, “Don’t you have some more book work to do inside?”

“Finished.”

Karigan grumbled to herself as she went to retrieve her knives. Locating the first knife entailed bushwhacking through undergrowth to reach it. When she returned, she found Fergal where she had been standing, gazing at her lumpy target.

“It’s not as easy as it looks,” she said, guessing what he was thinking.

“Can I try?”

Reluctantly she passed him one of the knives. “You have to visualize where you want—” Drent’s advice barely left her tongue when the knife soared at the target and hit it with a solid thunk. Karigan’s mouth dropped open. She closed it, and handed him the other knife.

Once again he hit the mark square on. It was no accident.

“How?” Karigan asked.

“My da had lots of knives.” Fergal walked over to the birch to extract the blades from the target. “Sometimes I got bored and practiced throwing them. When he wasn’t around. These are better weighted though.” He tossed one into the air and caught the hilt with ease when it came whirling down. If Karigan attempted such a thing, she’d slice off several fingers. Deflated, she sat down on a tree stump.

When he offered her the knives back, hilts first, she waved him off. “You might as well keep them.”

“Really?”

Karigan nodded, and Fergal did a little dance of his own. When he paused, he asked, “Why?”

“You have a better, uh, aptitude for throwing, and if we ever get into a situation where those knives are needed, I’d rather they be in your hands.”

“I can teach you,” he said.

“Maybe, but in the meantime, I better leave them in your care.” She had no idea of what Drent would say to this—if he ever forgave her for taking the knives without permission in the first place.

“There’s one thing I’m not so good at,” Fergal said.

“Oh?”

“Arms Master Gresia wanted me to practice swordplay. She said you would coach me well.”

A smile formed on Karigan’s lips. “Fetch the practice blades, then.”

Karigan ran him through basic exercises, beginning to see him as any arms master might see the untrained as raw material with much to sculpt; technique to hone and skill to develop. Fergal was right: he was “not so good” at swordplay, and if she felt demoralized by his superior ability in knife throwing, the swordplay restored her self-confidence. She recognized, however, the potential for him to improve, and she resolved to return him to Sacor City a better swordsman than he left.

The wooden blades cracked through the forest as dusk swallowed late afternoon. When it was too dark to see, they retired to the cabin for a simple, but warm, meal.

Preble Waystation was more heavily used than others Karigan had stayed in and so was larger, with three beds instead of one, should chance bring in more than one Rider at a time, and its fragrant cedar closet was filled with more replacement gear than was usual. There was additional paddock space and fodder for the horses as well.

The waystations were for the sole use of Green Riders and had originally been built where no other lodging was available. Over the years, however, the number of Riders had declined, which meant fewer Riders able to stock and maintain the stations, and in some places, the growth of towns had reduced their necessity. As a result, the least used waystations, and those closest to population centers, had been decommissioned long before Karigan entered the messenger service.

Riders welcomed the waystations not only for the shelter they provided along the road, but for their sense of security. They had been built to blend into the landscape and had been warded with spells to keep out unwanted intruders. The wards didn’t keep the wildlife out, however, and it wasn’t unusual for Riders to have to dislodge squirrel nests from chimneys or chase bats out the door with brooms. On a few occasions, Riders had arrived at a waystation to discover a bear had broken in and made a terrible mess. And then there was Garth’s encounter with the Skunk…The poor man had been ostracized for weeks.

Even if none of these creatures had taken up lodging in a waystation, their littlest cousins were inevitable residents. Sweeping out mouse droppings was usually the first order of business for a Rider settling into a waystation for the night.

Karigan knew that Captain Mapstone dreamed of her Riders one day being permanently posted not at these simple waystations, but at larger relays built in Sacoridia’s towns and cities. Even if all the Rider brooches in the captain’s coffer were claimed, Karigan wondered if there would be enough Riders to fulfill her dream. If so, then relay stations would offer a more efficient use of Green Riders and swifter message delivery.

These were some of her meandering thoughts as she sat rocking before the cobblestone hearth, warming her stocking feet before the fire, a mug of tea cupped in her hands. It was, she thought, better to look ahead to a positive future rather than worry about Eletians or the wall. Here she was on an ordinary errand that, despite its rough beginning, was going smoothly and making good time. Of course, they had farther to go and hadn’t even reached their first destination. Anything could go wrong between now and then.

“Osric M’Grew was the last one here,” Fergal said. He was flipping through the waystation’s logbook. “He was here last month.”

Karigan nodded, her eyes half-closed as she watched the flames flare and twist. “I suppose you could sign us in.”

Fergal did so eagerly. Karigan had seen from his lessons that his handwriting was wobbly and his spelling atrocious, but he could spell his own name. She had to help him with hers. There was some blotting of ink and intense concentration as he recorded the date and wrote, The weather is nice.

When he finished, he continued to leaf through the pages, pausing now and then to read. “Pretty boring,” he said. “Mostly dates and names.”

Karigan restrained the impulse to roll her eyes. “Our entry isn’t very exciting either.”

“I know.” Fergal sounded so disappointed that Karigan did roll her eyes.

She had weighed whether or not to tell him about the Eletians that passed their campsite some nights ago, but for some reason, she felt as though it had been a vision meant only for her. There was also the “personal message” at least one among them left her. Wasn’t it her duty to report any unusual sightings in the logbook as a warning to other Riders who passed this way?

She said nothing, did not request Fergal to pass her the logbook. She remained silent about the Eletians because it was her, not the other Riders, with whom they were playing games.

A snort from Fergal startled her back to the present.

“What?”

Fergal read slowly and carefully, not quite getting all the words right, an entry from Mara Brennyn: “…I saved myself when my ability emerged for the first time; a ball of flame erupted from my palm and lit the kindling when my fingers were too numb to strike flint. Actually, I almost burned down the forest…”

Several miles north of Preble Waystation, at a campsite along a woods trail, Mara had broken through the ice of a pond in deepest winter. The emergence of her ability to create fire had saved her from freezing to death. Karigan once asked Mara what she had been doing on the pond, and the Rider had blushed. “Ice skating. I carry my blades with me during the winter. I thought the pond was safe.”

Karigan had learned early on that many of her colleagues had interesting and sometimes eccentric pastimes outside of the messenger service. When Karigan had laughed at Mara’s explanation, the Rider had said, “What? I grew up on a lake, and during the winter skating was the easiest way to reach the village.” Karigan hadn’t been laughing entirely at the idea of Mara ice skating, but at the fact the accident hadn’t been related to some danger of the job, which was most often the case with emerging Rider abilities.

“How far back does that book go?” Karigan asked.

“Seven years. It’s almost filled up.”

Mara had been called to the messenger service about six years ago. Riders often did not make it to five years, some because an accident befell them, others because their brooches simply abandoned them.

Fergal flipped through a few more pages before growing very still. Though Karigan continued to stare into the fire, she could feel his gaze on her.

Slowly, as though gathering courage, he asked, “When will I come into my magic?”

The plaintive question caught her off guard, but she supposed she should have anticipated it. If she were Fergal, she’d be curious, too. “It’s hard to say. It’ll make itself known when it’s ready to.”

“I know. That’s what Ty said. What does it mean?”

Karigan rocked more slowly. What did it mean? Her ability had surfaced before she’d even known or acknowledged herself to be a Rider. She’d never gone through a period of waiting and wondering.

“There’s no easy answer,” she said. “Your ability will become apparent when it needs to. They seem to require a crisis or some trauma to emerge, something that endangers the Rider or those around him, like when Mara fell through the ice. She’d have frozen to death if her ability hadn’t arisen to help her build a fire.”

“And like when you were being chased by Lord Mirwell’s men,” Fergal said.

“Yes.” The floorboards beneath her chair creaked as she rocked harder.

“Ty said they almost caught you.”

“Yes.”

“He said you turned invisible to escape them.”

“Yes. Well, more or less.” She would have to speak to Ty about how much he told the new Riders. It felt strange to have people talking about her.

“What was it like?” Fergal asked. “How did it happen exactly?”

He meant the emergence of her ability, but it was so tied up with other things, bad memories, that it was difficult to talk about even now. She turned the rocking chair to face him. Despite her reluctance, it was probably better to get this over with now so he wouldn’t plague her about it the entire journey.

“It was raining that day,” she began, “and a thick fog had settled into the forest. I had in my possession a message the Mirwellians dearly wanted to intercept before it could reach the king. At that point, I really had no idea of what it was all about, and since this was thrust upon me unexpectedly, I certainly knew nothing of the special abilities of Riders.”

“F’ryan Coblebay gave you his brooch,” Fergal said.

“Yes. I didn’t know what it meant at the time.” She remembered the dying Rider on the road. She remembered him pleading with her to carry his message to King Zachary and the blood that saturated his gauntlets as he reached out to her. She shook herself out of her reverie. It seemed ancient history, but now that she recalled it, it returned with startling clarity.

“Pursuit followed,” she continued, “and their captain found me. Immerez was his name. I was—I was terrified. I was caught, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“You cut off his hand, didn’t you?”

Karigan scowled. She would definitely have to have a talk with Ty. “That was later. This time I managed to escape. I wanted to disappear, I was so scared, and the brooch responded. I vanished from Immerez’s sight and that of his men.”

“But…what was it like?”

Karigan shrugged. “I didn’t feel any great change, and it took me a while to figure out what happened. When I became aware of it, I realized it was not so much the fog that dulled my vision, but the use of my new ability. I also get nasty headaches. Most Riders will tell you they suffer some ill effect from using their abilities. It’s like having to sacrifice something for the gift.”

“I don’t care,” Fergal said. “I just want mine.”

Karigan raised her eyebrows. Why did he make her feel ever so old? Only experience, she supposed, would show him the truth. Telling him of Captain Mapstone’s chronic joint pain or of Mara’s fevers—the costs of using their abilities—would not convince him there was a dark side to a Rider’s magic. He must fancy the idea of being able to walk through walls, or of molding fire in the palm of his hand, or even to fade from view as she could. She would ask him what he thought when his ability finally did emerge and he had a chance to use it.

Even if the subject made her uneasy, she was pleased he was at least willing to talk to her about it. He was looking at the logbook again, then glanced at her and handed it to her.

“An entry from F’ryan Coblebay,” he said.

Karigan took the book expecting to see nothing more than a date and his signature, but to her surprise, there was more: I make good time on the road, yet farther west I must travel, across the Grandgent and skirting Selium northward to Mirwell Province. I know not what I may encounter, but I fear this errand is not without peril. So to you my good Riders, should I fail in my duty, I say ride well for your king and your country; and for she who awaits me and in the garden dwells, watch over her for me. Tell her I love her.

Somehow he had known. Somehow he had known he would not return from his errand, for this was dated just a month before Karigan encountered him dying on the road. And the one who awaited him? None other than Lady Estora. She still grieved for him, Karigan knew, but it was a secret grief that must be hidden from all but the Riders lest it become known she had loved a commoner. F’ryan was the bond that had created a friendship between Estora and Karigan. Karigan was the last to see him alive and now wore his brooch, and Estora had spoken to her as if she could bridge some chasm, somehow allow her words to connect with F’ryan beyond the veil of death.

Had Karigan betrayed more than friendship when she pushed Estora away? Had she betrayed F’ryan’s wishes? He had come to her after death in the form of a ghost on that long ago journey, and still his words reached her from beyond the grave.

She closed the logbook saddened that the line between commoner and noble, and that between life and death, kept apart those who loved one another. Life was such a fleeting thing, after all.

Over the days that followed, they rode into a stiff northwest wind that froze cheeks and nose tips, and portended the winter to come. Mostly they rode in silence, but it was a comfortable silence. In the evenings they practiced with the wooden swords, providing much entertainment for the children of one village. Fergal was beginning to get a better sense of rhythm with the drills Karigan put him through. When outside the confines of a village, Fergal tried to teach her to throw knives. While her efforts went wild less often, the knives still soared far off target. Karigan had to give Fergal credit for containing both his impatience with her and his laughter.

They encountered more and more farms and villages as they neared the Grandgent River. The Grandgent was the largest river in Sacoridia, and much commerce occurred along its shores. Her father’s river cogs sailed its water on trading missions all the way from Corsa Harbor to Adolind Province. Shipyards launched vessels along its banks, and river drivers sent rafts of logs down the currents destined for one of the many sawmills. Hundreds of feet of board then went on to the shipyards for the building of vessels of all sizes and types.

The Kingway split the boundaries of Penburn and L’Petrie provinces as it approached the river, and if Karigan hadn’t been duty bound on king’s business, she could steer southward to the coast and her home in Corsa. She might even obtain a berth on a riverboat heading downstream. She smiled at the thought of her aunts fussing over her and pushing more food before her than she could ever hope to eat. And of course there were her father’s hugs. Then once the initial greetings were over, she knew her aunts would bemoan her “decision” to “join” the messenger service. Even worse, the debacle of her outing with Braymer Coyle would have reached their ears by now via the merchants guild, and she would never hear the end of it. Better that she continue heading west than face the indignation of her strong-willed aunts.

Chicken, she told herself, but the smile did not leave her face.

The road cut through the center of one of the busiest towns on the east bank of the Grandgent, called Rivertown. Here the road was well made, a reflection of the wealth the shipbuilders and timber merchants heaped on their town, and the hooves of Condor and Sunny clattered on broad paving stones. Along the road were grand houses with formal gardens. As they neared Rivertown’s center, buildings clustered closer together and there were interesting shops of all kinds, as well as inns and eateries. Despite the neat and clean appearance of the main street, Karigan knew that rougher neighborhoods existed but a block away.

They circled a fountain in the town’s center in which a statue of Nia, goddess of rivers, stood. In one hand she balanced a river cog, in the other, a cant dog, a common tool used by foresters and river drivers. No mistaking what this town was about. And while there were at least two chapels dedicated to Aeryc, Karigan espied a tiny chapel in Nia’s service. It wasn’t often one found a chapel devoted to the lesser gods these days.

Soon their first view of the river appeared as the street dipped down. Bookended by the facades of buildings on either side of the street, it shone a deep, royal blue with the sun glancing on it, and after the greens, browns, and rusts of the countryside, it proved a delight to the eye.

Karigan halted Condor in front of a mercantile. “This is our last big town before we reach Selium,” she said, “so I want to restock our provisions.”

Fergal chose to wait for her outside with the horses, and when she returned with her arms full of foodstuffs, she found him fingering his Rider brooch and staring at the river.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” she said. “My father always called it the grandfather of rivers, and he’s sailed up and down it quite a bit.”

“Oh.” Fergal tried to look interested in her words, but failed. Something about the river did hold his attention, but whatever it was, he did not say. Karigan dismissed it and they loaded the new provisions into their saddlebags.

She mounted Condor and reined him back onto the street.

“How long until we reach Selium?” Fergal asked.

“If we make good time this afternoon, it should be only a few more days.”

They descended the street to Rivertown Landing, and here the scent of dead fish and rotting river weed rose up from the shore and from the marshes across the river. If it weren’t so late in the season, they’d see all kinds of birds nesting, hovering, and wading, but the waters and sky were empty and the only bird Karigan espied was a lone gull winging southward.

Even the docks felt abandoned. Smaller boats were pulled up on the bank and turned over for the season, and along the shore, river sloops were on dry dock. Some cogs bobbed at the end of the town pier, but they were few compared to the confusion and congestion the summer trading season brought.

The ferry was tied up where the street met water. It wasn’t more than a barge with rails, large enough to carry horse-drawn wagons and carriages. It was propelled by oars, for a line and pulley system one might find on a smaller river was impractical due to the Grandgent’s breadth and the mast height of the vessels that needed to pass through the ferry crossing.

Karigan rang a brass bell that hung from a post beside the ferry and four burly, grubby rivermen emerged from the nearest tavern. These were the oarsmen. An older fellow with gray whiskers and a pipe sauntered out behind them, no doubt the ferry master.

“Weeell,” he drawled, “a pair o’ king’s men if my eyes don’ deceive me.”

Karigan wanted to tell him that, yes, his eyes did in fact deceive him, but she learned to restrain her sarcasm when on duty. At least most of the time. Now she had the added pressure of setting a good example of Rider comportment for Fergal.

“We require passage across the river,” she said.

“O’ course ye do,” he replied, taking his own time to amble up to her. “Two ’orses and two men. That’ll be a silver each.”

An internal struggle erupted within Karigan as she attempted to quell her outrage at such an appalling price. What was needed here was a bridge and not this thievery. Her merchant’s instinct took hold, and much to her own satisfaction, and to the ferry master’s astonishment, she backed him down to two coppers.

“You shouldn’t be wrongly charging the king’s servants,” she admonished him. “It’s people like you who take advantage and drive up taxes. The king shall hear of it.” It was a bit more heated than she intended, and not that perfect show of comportment she was trying to model for Fergal, but the ferry master blanched in a pleasing manner.

“Sorry, sir, sorry. Don’ tell the king! I swear I won’ overcharge his men again!”

Sir? Karigan sighed.

The deal was struck and the ramp drawn down so the Riders could lead their mounts aboard. Condor loaded with no problem, having had his share of ferry crossings through his career. Sunny, however, was less sure and balked. She had to look the contraption over carefully before she allowed Fergal to lead her on board. Karigan was impressed by how he remained calm and patient with her, and even patted her neck and offered her praise once she stood solidly on board. He was learning, though she could not say he had warmed up to the mare, and she sensed his good care of her was inspired more by duty than affection. Once Sunny was loaded, he turned his attention back to the river, and fidgeted as they waited for the oarsmen to shove off.

In some places the river was half a mile wide, but in the far north where it originated, born of ice and snow in a jagged line of mountains, the river ran narrow, wild, and white, cascading down the landscape in unnavigable rapids, birthing other rivers that spread across the land like branching veins. Few adventurers traveled that far north for the land was icy and harsh and no one lived there. As the river flowed into Sacoridia, first through Adolind Province, it calmed and widened, though the spring melt created some fast-moving rapids. Here at the Rivertown crossing, the river was wide and comparatively placid.

The oarsmen took up their stations starboard and port, and the ferry master dropped his rudder and tiller into place. With strong, long strokes of the oars, they began the crossing. The northwest wind pushed at the ferry and curdled the surface of the river, but the ferry master leaning on the tiller kept them on course. Poor Sunny braced her legs to stand steady, the whites of her eyes showing.

As the ferry pulled out farther into the river, they left behind a shore littered with rank river weed and fish floating belly up in the shallows among snarled strands of netting and broken barrel staves. Rotten vegetables and refuse added to the stink of dead fish, and a boot was caught in the ribs of an abandoned dory. There was smashed crockery and tangled fishing gear stuck in the mud. The scene, Karigan thought, could belong to any busy harbor town.

The wind lifted spray from the oars in upstroke, which slapped her cheek in icy splashes.

“So’s it true the king has got hisself a woman?” the ferry master asked.

Karigan blinked, then almost laughed. It was the first time she had heard the betrothal referred to in such a way. “King Zachary has contracted to marry Lord-Governor Coutre’s daughter.”

“Aye, contracted. Whore games of the nobles that is.”

“Best to watch how you speak of our king and future queen,” Karigan warned, though she thought of it in much the same way.

“Well, that’s fine,” the ferry master said, puffing on his pipe. “Time the old boy took a wife.”

Karigan lifted her eyebrows. Old boy? King Zachary? She didn’t know whether to be perturbed or to laugh. King Zachary was older than she by twelve years, but “old boy”? She glanced at Fergal to see how he was taking the conversation, but he was leaning over the port rail, staring into the river’s depths as the ferrymen dipped and pulled on their oars in a hypnotic rhythm, the oarlocks groaning with each stroke.

The harsh wind blew down the river and nearly carried off the ferry master’s cap. He caught it in time and pulled it down securely over his head. The craft shuddered against the blast and more spray washed over the starboard side. Karigan shivered and stood in the lee of Condor to cut the wind.

“Aye,” said the ferry master when it died down, “it’s lookin’ like an early winter. Already had some ice floatin’ down from the north.”

If their business in the west took longer than expected and the river iced over, Karigan and Fergal would have to ride south to the nearest bridge for their return crossing. The river would not freeze smoothly like a lake; no, it would crack and buckle, and the layers would stack up in sharp angles, making the ice impassible.

Karigan was about to comment when there was a loud splash and a strangled cry. To her horror, Fergal no longer stood at the rail. He no longer stood on the ferry at all.