BIRCH’S MESSAGE
Karigan sighed in relief as Condor plodded up the
last rise of the Winding Way and the castle gates at last came into
view. The fickle weather, changing from snow to sleet to rain, only
to freeze again, had challenged them almost every day of their
return journey.
Ironically, on this,
their last day of travel, the weather turned bright and warm, slush
melting into puddles on the cobbled streets, and many of Sacor
City’s denizens were out and about to absorb the sunshine so long
denied them.
At the gates proper,
she found the way blocked by a donkey cart. Chickens in cages piled
on the cart cackled and squawked, and a milk cow, tied to the back
end, serenely chewed her cud. The cart’s master sat astride an old
mare and was deep into an argument with the guards.
Karigan could not
hear exactly what the argument was about, except that the guards
did not wish to grant the man passage. Here she was, so close to
her destination, only to be delayed yet again. At least she carried
no urgent message, and so she resigned herself to waiting. The
sunshine pouring down on her shoulders was not unpleasant, and her
eyelids drooped.
Snatches of
conversation at the gates came to her: “I will not leave my girls behind!” and “You just go tell
the captain I’m here.”
The flicker of a
cooling shadow glided over Karigan. Idly she gazed up and saw a
vulture circling slow and low. Another fluttering of black wings
caught her eye as ravens alighted on the arch that spanned the
gates. She wondered what attracted them. She glanced skyward again,
and a second vulture looped on drafts high above the
first.
That can’t be good.
The man ahead was
still bickering with the guards, but Condor, who’d been drowsing,
raised his head with nose pointed to the air.
“What is it?”
Karigan asked him.
From behind came
shouts and a scream. Karigan swiveled in her saddle to see what was
the matter. Pedestrians pointed at a horse and rider cantering up
the street. The horse’s strides were exhausted, and the rider’s
position stiff and lopsided, jerking against the motion of the gait
instead of flowing with it. Ravens swooped at and fluttered around
him.
Karigan squinted
against the glare of sunshine on the wet street. The horse was
bound for the gates, and as it neared, her horror grew by the
second.
She recognized the
star on the horse’s nose—it was Petrel, belonging to Osric M’Grew,
a fellow Green Rider. Indeed, the figure mounted on Petrel wore
Rider green, though it was hard to tell, for the uniform was so
saturated with dried blood. The sun flashed on his winged horse
brooch.
“Osric ...” she
whispered.
He was clearly dead,
his head tilted at a bad angle and his jaw flapping to the rhythm
of Petrel’s strides. His eyes were missing, pecked out by the black
flock that plunged and fluttered around him. He was secured to a
wooden frame and propped in the saddle to sit erect, much like a
mounted scarecrow.
Petrel herself was
almost gone, stumbling as she approached the gates, her ribs
protruding, and her nostrils dripping blood. Her once gleaming coat
was now ragged and dull, and crossed with striations from the
attack of some predator probably attracted by the scent of the
corpse upon her back. The only sounds in the silence were Petrel’s
harsh huffing and the sharp cries of the ravens.
Karigan could not
move, could not look away, as Petrel passed by her. Osric’s lips
were black and peeled back from his teeth. His ears and nose were
nearly pecked away. Beneath the encrusted blood, she saw a thatch
of blond hair she recognized.
Yes, Osric.
The man at the gates
and the guards parted to let Petrel through. Karigan retched on the
sickly sweet stench of rot that followed Osric, and Condor
half-reared, the whites of his eyes showing.
“Gods,” Karigan said. She mastered Condor and
kicked him past the donkey cart, through the gates and over the
bridge to the castle grounds. Condor ran hard after Petrel, and
tears glided across Karigan’s cheeks. She knew exactly where Petrel
was headed.
In this, the final
stretch of Petrel’s terrible journey with her beloved Rider dead
upon her back, she put on an unearthly burst of speed, giving the
last of her being to end it. Condor pounded after her; followed
until they reached the small stone building that was officers
quarters.
Petrel came to a
trembling halt, and Karigan reined Condor to a walk. The door to
officers quarters flung open, and Captain Mapstone stepped
out.
Having completed her
mission, Petrel’s legs buckled beneath her and she collapsed hard
upon the earth, the corpse of Osric M’Grew going down stiff and
lifeless with her.
A couple hours
later, Karigan sat in the common room of the Rider wing, still not
sure who Elgin Foxsmith was, except that it was the name of the
fellow with the donkey cart at the castle gates. He’d followed
after her on his own horse to officers quarters, arriving only
moments after Petrel fell dead.
The captain, pale as
bone, had ordered Karigan to inform the king, and as she reined
Condor away from the awful scene to obey, the fellow dismounted and
went to the captain, speaking softly to her, placing his hand on
her shoulder.
As it turned out,
word of Osric’s return reached the king and others ahead of Karigan
and they were already rushing from the castle when she arrived.
After that, she did the only thing she could do: she saw to
Condor’s needs, then came to the common room to sit and wait. Wait
for what, she did not know.
At some point, Elgin
Foxsmith had come by in search of Mara, offering to take charge of
the newer, younger Riders. He promised to keep them busy. Out of
the way and away from senior Riders in mourning.
“I’ll explain it to
the young ones,” he assured Mara.
Relieved of that
concern, Mara went to the captain, and Elgin Foxsmith marched the
young Riders out to the weapons practice field for
calisthenics.
Karigan felt
drained. She’d seen a lot of death during her time as a Rider,
everything from the freshly killed to the ancient corpses down in
the tombs, but never had she seen such a thing as Osric propped
like that.
And the gaping
sockets where his eyes should be ...
Beside her, Yates
was passed out with his head on the table, a goblet tipped over by
his half-curled hand, and the sour stench of wine heavy in the air.
Garth sat in an armchair in front of the hearth quietly drunk, his
eyes glassy.
Karigan did not
drink. She could not even hold a cup for all the shaking. She had
not changed out of her uniform—hadn’t even removed her boots or
greatcoat.
The risks were known
to each of them. Every time one of them set out on an errand for
the king, there was the real possibility they might not
return.
This was different,
though. None expected to come back the way Osric had.
What color had his
eyes been? Karigan found she could not remember.
Presently Mara
returned. She stood in the doorway and glanced about as if dazed,
then strode to the table and sat on a chair next to
Karigan.
“I didn’t have a
chance to say it before,” she said, “but I’m glad you’re back. Your
visit with your family went well?”
Karigan nodded.
Maybe later, when some time had passed, she’d give Mara the
details. At the moment, all of that seemed far away and
unimportant.
“Mara, what happened
to Osric? Where was he?”
Mara rubbed her eyes
as if to wash away some image. “He was keeping watch on Birch’s
movements. Evidently he was caught.”
Birch. Second
Empire. They’d already lost Constance and Harry in the darkest
months of winter. They’d been watching Birch, too.
“King Zachary thinks
Birch is mocking us,” Mara continued. “That’s why he sent Osric
back the way he did. Our Riders are good, but Birch is saying he’s
better, and he knows the king is spying on him.” She clenched her
hands into fists. “Osric is being prepared for the trip home to his
mother in D’Ivary. I already sent Tegan to take her the
news.”
“And
Petrel?”
“She’ll be buried in
the pasture.”
Karigan nodded. No
Rider horse went to the knacker. Still, she thought it sad horse
and Rider would not be laid to rest together, but she knew how
impractical that would be. She did not doubt the pair were together
in the afterlife anyway, galloping among the stars.
“Who is Elgin
Foxsmith?” she asked.
Mara actually
smiled, though it was a tired smile. “My predecessor, or one of
them. He was chief when our captain was a mere Rider. She asked him
to come help with the new Riders a couple weeks ago, but we’d given
up on him. Then there he was today. His timing, frankly, couldn’t
have been better.”
When there was no
more to be said, Karigan helped Mara put Yates to bed. Garth was
too big and heavy to move, so they left him in his armchair staring
into the fire.
Finally Karigan went
to her own chamber. The door was cracked open, and when she stepped
inside, she found the blanket on her bed covered with clumps of
white cat hair as usual, and the purveyor of that hair lying on her
pillow with his legs in the air. Ghost Kitty, who was in fact not
at all a ghost, but one of the felines whose duty it was to patrol
the tombs for rodents, barely acknowledged her entrance with a
twitch of his tail.
“Well look who’s
made himself at home,” Karigan said.
She set aside her
saddlebags, removed the message satchel from her shoulder, and at
last took off her greatcoat. She sat on her bed and stroked Ghost
Kitty’s cheek, and was rewarded with a resounding
purr.
She’d have
nightmares tonight, but at least she wouldn’t be
alone.