OF CIRCLES AND FORM
The Riders held a memorial circle for Osric, a
practice conducted by Riders centuries ago, then forgotten, only to
be rediscovered and revived thanks to Karigan, who had witnessed
such a ceremony when she was pulled into the ancient past by wild
magic.
Dakrias Brown, the
castle’s chief administrator, gave over his records room for the
purpose. The newer Riders stood in wonder as they gazed up at
stained glass windows lit from behind with lanterns, bringing to
life in rippling colors the exploits of the First Rider at the end
of the Long War. At one time the records room had served as the
castle library and the domed glass panels had originally been open
to the sunlight, but they were eventually closed in to allow for
the castle’s expansion. Some thought the blocking of the windows
was actually King Agates Sealender’s expression of antipathy for
his own Green Riders.
Captain Mapstone led
the memorial circle, speaking of Osric and his deeds, and her own
fond memories of him. Then she said, “I remember Osric.” And
everyone responded, “Osric.” After
that, around the circle they went, each Rider speaking the name of
some comrade who had fallen in the line of duty.
Karigan fancied
spirits hovered in the shadows, in and among the tall shelving that
housed hundreds of years of dusty administrative records; that they
looked down upon the assembly of Riders to offer their own
respects. She couldn’t be sure they were really there, of course,
but it seemed to her that presences other than the Riders filled
the room.
Not to mention the
records room had a reputation for being haunted ...
The following day,
the Riders bore Osric’s coffin, draped in black, from the castle’s
chapel through the maze of corridors, the sound of their boots on
stone counterpoint to the music of some noble’s party spilling out
of the conservatory.
The castle housed
many different worlds: that of the monarch, of course, and all
those who were close to him, the servants and administrative staff
who helped run both castle and country; military personnel; various
and sundry nobles; and finally, visitors of all kinds, from lowly
commoners seeking an audience with the king to diplomats from other
realms. Sometimes the various worlds intersected, but class and
status often ensured they did not. As a result, there could be
dozens of concurrent, but unrelated and uncoordinated, activities
taking place among the different worlds.
While the kitchen
staff embarked on a major inventory of pantries and cellars, a
noble might be hosting a party when, in another part of the castle,
the king’s messengers mourned the passing of one of their
own.
Intellectually,
Karigan knew all this, but it still left a bitter taste in her
mouth as they approached the conservatory. A drunk aristocrat
slumped against the corridor wall raised his cup to the passing
Riders with a foolish grin on his face.
They do not care, Karigan thought.
Through the entryway
of the conservatory she glimpsed dancing and glittering jewels as
the musicians picked up the tempo. They did not care that some
lowly, common messenger had been killed. After all, it was their
privilege to have others die to keep them safe. And they wouldn’t
even pause in their frivolity to show respect with
silence.
Others in the
corridors did, the more common folk. They stepped aside and bowed
their heads as the somber Riders made their way past. Soldiers
stood at attention and saluted. Humble servants reached out to
touch the banner that draped the coffin. These people, Karigan
thought, were the ones who understood the sacrifice.
At the bottom of the
steps of the main castle entrance, the coffin was placed on a cart,
and Osric was sent home to his mother with an escort of Green
Riders, their banners rippling and snapping in the strong breeze as
they rode away.
In the days that
followed, winter crumbled apart, and the sun shone more intensely
and for longer each day. Snowmelt gushed from weep holes and
drainage spouts on the castle walls as loud and vigorous as
mountain freshets. Ice on pathways turned to slush. True spring was
still a way off and the air still held the bite of the north wind,
but an end was in sight.
Karigan had spoken
only briefly to Captain Mapstone after her return from Corsa, to
hand over the message from her father. Osric’s grisly arrival was
still all too fresh at the time, and the captain’s expression grim
and pale. Quickly she scanned the message, raising an eyebrow and
pursing her lips. Was it Karigan’s imagination, or did the
captain’s expression warm and lighten just a bit? It was like a
passing brightness between the clouds, however, and all too soon,
she shuttered herself once more and excused Karigan with a curt,
“Dismissed.”
From then on, except
for the memorial circle and farewell to Osric, the Riders saw
little of their captain. She was, Mara said, closeted with the king
and his advisors in meetings.
“No doubt talking
about Birch and Second Empire,” Mara said as she and Karigan helped
Hep the stablehand feed the horses one afternoon. “And probably the
Eletians, too.”
“Eletians? What
about the Eletians?”
“That’s right,” Mara
said, “you weren’t here. I guess with Osric and all, the Eletians
weren’t the major gossip anymore. Three came to see the
king.”
Karigan almost
dropped her grain scoop. “Eletians were
here? What did they want?”
“Apparently they
wished to resupply all of Eletia with chocolate,” Mara said,
separating flakes of hay to throw into another stall.
“What?”
Mara nodded sagely.
“Took Master Gruntler days to get in enough sugar and cocoa to
reopen his shop after the Eletians went through his stock. If you
were craving Dragon Droppings, forget it.”
Horses who had not
yet been fed made demanding whinnies, circled in their stalls, and
kicked the walls. Perhaps the noisiest of the lot was Elgin’s
donkey, Bucket, who, true to form, knocked his bucket
around.
“Eletians came to
Sacor City to buy chocolate? And that’s it?”
Mara struggled to
keep a straight face, but could not. She laughed, leaving Karigan
completely confounded.
“Mara!”
“All right, all
right. They weren’t here just for the chocolate. According to the
captain, the Eletians are going on an expedition into
Blackveil.”
Karigan just stood
there, stopped by she did not know what. The noise of the horses,
Mara’s presence, the stable itself, all faded away. Her hand went
to the moonstone in her pocket. Something niggled at her, but there
was only a blankness in her mind. Was there something she should
remember?
The tickle of a white feather across memory
...
“Karigan?”
Karigan shook her
head. “Eletians,” she said.
Mara gave her an odd
look. “Yes, Eletians.”
“And the king and
his advisors are debating this expedition?”
“I guess, but what
they are specifically discussing the captain hasn’t revealed. Not
yet, anyway.” Mara shrugged. “If the Eletians want to get
themselves killed by going into that place, it’s their business, if
you ask me.”
Karigan resumed
scooping grain into buckets in silence. Once again, the Eletians
had come to Sacor City. What couldn’t she remember? She sighed. If
it was important, it would come back to her.
Karigan discovered,
to her dismay, no one had been attending to Rider accounts in her
absence. Ordinarily the duty fell to the Chief Rider, but because
of Karigan’s merchant background, the captain passed the duty on to
her.
As she looked over
the ledgers missing rows and rows of entries, she realized she had
no one to blame but herself. She’d neglected to assign anyone the
task while she was away—she’d been too wrapped up in worrying about
the coming confrontation with her father.
“Idiot,” she berated
herself over and over.
Now she paid for
that neglect, frantically running back and forth between the
quartermaster’s office and the administrative wing of the castle,
seeking any record of transactions, and she plagued Mara and Connly
to rack their brains for expenses.
One late night she
filled the long table of the Rider common room with ledgers,
crumpled receipts, and notes scrawled with half-remembered
transactions. When she thought she’d go blind from all the figures,
she laid her head on the table and placed an open ledger over her
face to block the lamplight. She started to drift off, but was
awakened by footsteps.
She sat up, knocking
some papers to the floor. She blinked blearily to find Fergal
standing before her.
“You’re working
late,” he said. “It’s about midnight.”
“What are you doing
up?” she demanded.
“I’ve tomorrow off,
so I was down at the Cock and Hen.”
The Cock and Hen
served the best bitter ale in the city, but was located in a seedy
neighborhood. She bit her tongue to prevent herself from taking
Fergal to task for venturing there on his own. His days as her
trainee were over, but it wasn’t easy for her to slip from her role
as mentor. To her mind he was still so young and
inexperienced.
Young he may be, but
he was now a full-fledged Rider responsible for his own
conduct.
Fergal took a long,
hard look at the mess on the table. “Glad that’s not my
job.”
“Someone’s got to
keep the books,” she said with a sigh.
“Just so long as I
get paid,” Fergal said, and he left the common room whistling a
tune.
“Paid?” Karigan said
in honest horror. “Paid? Oh, gods, the
payroll. I forgot the payroll.” And she
gently thumped her forehead on the table.
If the Rider
accounts mess wasn’t bad enough, there was weapons training with
Arms Master Drent.
It was not every
Green Rider who trained with Master Drent. In fact, currently there
was only one other, and Beryl Spencer was so often away on secret
missions for the king that Karigan might as well be the only one.
Drent complained to no end that he’d yet to see a Green Rider
attain swordmastery as their duties interrupted training far too
much. Or the Rider simply got killed in the course of
duty.
Drent trained only
the best of the best swordmasters and swordmaster initiates. Among
those he trained were the Weapons, the black-clad warriors who
guarded royalty both living and dead. All Weapons were
swordmasters, but not all swordmasters were Weapons. Drent’s most
special pupil was the king, who was an accomplished swordmaster,
though obviously the king could not become a Weapon since he could
not guard himself.
Swordmasters
sponsored and trained initiates, who achieved swordmastery if they
passed a series of tests. From there, a swordmaster could seek
service with a noble lord or go to the academy to train as a
Weapon. The ways of the Weapons were secretive, and from what
little Karigan could glean, the academy was located on a barren
island miles off Hillander Province, where Weapons lived and
trained in austere circumstances. When their training was complete
they were tested one last time to determine their fitness. Drent
was among those who had final say in which trainees were inducted
into the elite order.
Karigan did not ask
to become a swordmaster initiate, nor had she ever desired to train
with Drent, but it appeared to be her fate, supported by both her
captain and king. They seemed to think she had some talent with a
sword. Drent was determined to prove them wrong.
She’d been training
with Drent before she was officially named a swordmaster initiate,
but so far there was little difference in her current training from
the hammerings she received before, except for the gradual
introduction of new moves and more emphasis on form. A swordmaster
did not just fight for survival, but made an art of it. Being a
swordmaster was more than mere fighting: it was grace, it was
stealth and power, it was precision.
Karigan did not feel
like any of those things, when once again, her practice partner,
Flogger, whacked her across the buttocks with the flat of his
wooden practice sword and sent her stumbling from the muddy
practice ring. Stepping out of the ring was an automatic kill
point, and she’d lost count of how many times she had been “killed”
during the day’s session.
She glowered,
rubbing her numb behind, while Flogger grinned at her. He’d had it
in for her for months now, after she embarrassed him a time or two
in the fall. Now, however, she was prohibited from employing the
techniques she used before, which some would call tricks.
Swordmaster initiate training, she was informed by Drent, was about
the art of the sword, not tricks.
“What are you
waiting for Greenie?”
Drent had crept up
from behind so silently his voice made her jump. She hastened back
into the small practice ring, her boots sucking in the
mud.
“I want to see the
whole sequence from the beginning, without pause,” Drent said, his
voice one of menacing delight. He smiled, and with his thick
features, it was a gruesome thing. “The Greenie will do the forms,
and Flogger will counter.”
Karigan’s heart
sank. She’d be stuck to the prescribed sequence, while Flogger
could vary his technique as he wished in an effort to throw her
off. Others paused their bouts to watch, as they often did.
Karigan’s humiliation made for good sport.
They tapped swords
and Flogger came at her with a simple thrust. The first form was
called Aspen Leaf, in which Karigan traced the shape of an aspen
leaf through the air with speed and force, meeting Flogger’s sword
with a solid clank and pushing it aside; followed by crosswise
slashes that represented the veins of the leaf, again swiftly met
by Flogger.
Clack! Clack! Clack!
In a real fight with
real swords, Aspen Leaf could slice up an opponent in a dozen
different ways.
Karigan flowed into
Crayman’s Circle and Snake Gliding, and Flogger, who knew the
routine, turned her thrusts away and parried her slashes. They
developed a rhythm so that the sequence became a dance, but she had
to remain alert because she could become lost in it, oblivious to
all else, only to have her opponent seize the opportunity to pull
an unexpected move that caught her off guard.
So far Flogger
remained steady on the rhythm, not pulling any of his usual stunts,
his form impeccable. For some reason he was drawing out the
sequence instead of securing a rapid victory.
Must be showing off for Drent, she thought. But
even when Drent watched, Flogger usually tried to defeat her as
quickly as possible. Perhaps there was someone else among the
onlookers he wanted to impress.
And then it came, a
swipe at her legs that opposed the rhythm they’d
established.
Because Karigan, as
a smaller, less muscular opponent, had little hope of defeating
Flogger with sheer force, she’d been trained to use an adversary’s
own power against him, and here she did so, hopping out of the way
and sweeping her blade behind his and slamming it out of his hands.
The wooden practice sword flew into the crowd while Flogger looked
after it in disbelief. There was some scattered clapping among the
onlookers.
“Well, well,” Drent
said, and it was all he said before moving on to another pair of
trainees.
Sweat streamed down
Karigan’s face, and she was splattered and soaked to the skin with
mud and bruised to the bone as usual, but she could not help but
feel triumphant.
Her triumph lasted
only as long as it took Flogger to retrieve his practice sword, a
scowl on his face.
They tapped swords
to begin again.
“That’s the last
time you’ll embarrass me in front of the king, Greenie,” Flogger
said.
“King?”
“Didn’t see him,
eh?”
No, she hadn’t. She
glanced across the practice field searching for him, but most of
the audience had already dispersed.
THWACK!
“Ow!” Karigan cried,
grasping her forearm as her practice sword tumbled to the ground.
Jolts of pain shot between her wrist and elbow. “That wasn’t
fair!”
“Not fair? We tapped
swords. You weren’t paying attention.”
As much as she hated
to admit it, Flogger was right, but it was hard not to be
distracted by thoughts of King Zachary. Had he enjoyed watching her
bout? How she moved? She had not seen him since her
return.
She cleared her
throat and shook her hand out when she realized she was just
standing there smiling foolishly, but it was more than exertion
that left a blush on her cheeks.