Firebrand

  They’d been traveling together long enough that there was little left to say, or little they had the energy to say, and each knew his or her tasks when it came to setting up and taking down camp. No one spoke while they rode, and few words passed among them when they paused for breaks. They were just too dead tired to sing or tell stories even when they rested by the campfire, though, in the evenings, Enver would still often leave camp to roam the woods, to listen to the voice of the world, as he put it. He would return with a peaceful expression on his face and a light in his eyes. Maybe, Karigan thought, she’d follow him sometime to see exactly how it was he attained “stillness.” She had to admit she was curious.

  When Enver halted up ahead, Karigan looked about in surprise, but saw no reason for him to stop. He stood in his stirrups and peered through the dense evergreen growth into the forest, then motioned for Karigan to come forward.

  When she brought Condor up beside him, she said, “What is it?”

  “I sense others.”

  “Groundmites?” Estral asked sharply from behind them.

  When Karigan glanced back, she saw her fearful expression.

  “Not groundmites,” Enver replied.

  “Second Empire?” Karigan asked.

  “I cannot tell.”

  “How close? Do they know we are here?”

  “I sense we are being watched.”

  “Damnation.”

  There was nothing else for them to do but keep slogging forward, but now Karigan did not lose herself in daydreams of napping in a beam of sunlight, but strained her senses to discern others in the forest with them. She turned at every crackling, at every chitter of a squirrel, at every branch bending beneath the weight of a blue jay, but she detected no human presence other than her own, and that of her companions.

  She continued to keep her senses heightened as they went on, but was still surprised when a man stepped out of the woods beside them and ordered them to halt. Enver swiftly nocked an arrow to his bow, and Karigan drew her saber.

  “Put your weapons away,” the man ordered. “There are a dozen arrows trained on you.”

  He was attired in woodsman’s clothes, dyed in greens and browns and grays to blend in with the forest. Karigan glanced about her and now, knowing what to look for, espied three archers camouflaged in the woods. If there were more as the man claimed, she could not see them. Neither she nor Enver put their weapons away, but neither did they make any threatening moves. Three archers were enough to kill them.

  “I said,” the man told them, “put your weapons away.”

  When Karigan and Enver did not obey, an arrow thwacked into Karigan’s saddle right beside her thigh. She fought to control her wildly beating heart as Condor whinnied and sidestepped.

  “The next arrow,” the man told her, “will cripple your leg. Put your weapons aside. I am not asking you to disarm.”

  True enough, Karigan thought, though she could not quite tear her gaze from the arrow impaled in her saddle. She shook herself and nodded to Enver. He lowered his bow, and she sent her saber home into its scabbard.

  “Who are you?” she demanded of the man.

  He took his time walking around them to look them over. When he stopped by her stirrup, he gave her an especially hard look. He had a winter’s growth of beard, which almost disguised his youth. The authority he exhibited was what made him appear older than his years.

  “Green Rider, eh?” he said.

  “I am Rider Sir Karigan G’ladheon, king’s messenger. Now do me the courtesy of telling me who you are.”

  “Thought so,” he murmured. He gave her something of a mocking smile. “We can talk later. First you will follow me.” He turned to enter the woods, obviously expecting them to fall in behind him.

  Karigan held her hand up to stay Enver and Estral. Estral gazed anxiously at her. They were not going anywhere until the man identified himself and his companions.

  “Halt,” she commanded him.

  He turned in surprise. “You are not the one giving orders here.”

  “I will not take orders from someone who just appears out of the woods, threatens us with arrows, and refuses to identify himself.”

  “The north woods are perilous,” he said. “I need to take you to have a conversation with my captain.”

  “We are not going anywhere until you tell us who you are.”

  “I have heard how stubborn you Greenies can be,” he said, “even with the threat of arrows trained on them, and trust me, Greenie, my archers have not let down their guard.”

  Karigan just waited.

  The man made a sound of annoyance. “If it eases your mind,” he said, “you’ve been found by a patrol of Sacoridia’s River Unit. I am Lieutenant Miles Rennard, at your service.” Again, the mocking smile, this time as if to challenge her to dispute his claim.

  She accepted. “Prove to me you are Sacoridian and not Second Empire.”

  “You are a smart girl, Rider Karigan.”

  “That’s Rider G’ladheon to you, Lieutenant. If you are a lieutenant.”

  He yanked his longknife out of its sheath and she tensed, but he just showed her the blade with its maker’s mark. It was that of one of the smiths who created arms for Sacoridia’s military. It was, in fact, by the same smith who had forged her saber.

  “You could have picked that up anywhere,” she told him.

  He threw his cloak back to show her his sleeve with its insignia of the River Unit and Sacoridia’s firebrand and crescent moon above it. “I suppose you are going to say I could have gotten this anywhere, as well.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. It was issued to me by the same quartermaster who issues you Greenies your gear.” He drew out a silver chain from beneath his collar and from it dangled a pendant of the crescent moon, and another of the sun. “Do you think you’d catch a Second Empire rat wearing the sign of Aeryc and Aeryon?”

  “Yes, if that rat was trying to pass himself off.”

  Lieutenant Rennard bristled. “And do you suppose we were waiting here in the woods just for a Green Rider and—and whoever these other two are to pass by?”

  Karigan shrugged. “I have seen Second Empire do all manner of things.”

  “I know you have, Rider G’ladheon, for I’ve heard something of your deeds. Apparently you’ve survived Blackveil, and however you did must make for a fascinating tale. As for me, I am who I say I am. We are on routine patrol here, and as a courtesy, I request that you return to camp with us to speak with Captain Treman. I am sure he would wish to have some word from the city.”

  Karigan yanked the arrow out of her saddle. The arrowhead’s sharp, broad blades, she observed, could cripple a leg, and do much worse. She handed it to the lieutenant. “If only you had said so to begin with.”

  “You believe me, then?”

  “Mostly.”

  He laughed. “This way, then.”

  Karigan and her companions ended up dismounting as the terrain grew more difficult than the Eletian way, with too many low-hanging branches making sitting atop a horse annoying at best, and hazardous at worst.

  “Are you sure about this?” Estral whispered to her.

  “As sure as just about anything else.” Karigan did not know Captain Treman personally, but she had heard Captain Mapstone and Mara speak highly of him, and he was a decorated warrior. Even if this was some elaborate ruse perpetrated by Second Empire, there would have been no escaping the arrows of Lieutenant Rennard’s archers.

  She watched their surroundings as they traveled over the bump and swale of the forest floor and splashed through gullies. They were good, the soldiers of the River Unit. She could only pick out two or three that kept apace of them in the distance.

  Enver, who seemed to know what she was looking for, said, “There are twenty of them, Galadheon.”


  Twenty! They were good. But so was Enver to have spotted and counted them.

  After about an hour of walking, she caught a whiff of wood smoke. A guard stepped out from hiding and challenged Lieutenant Rennard, then let them through. After another half hour or so, they stepped into the encampment guarded by soldiers watching their every movement. The encampment appeared to occupy the grounds and buildings of an old lumber camp. Tents were pitched in precise rows, and there were numerous campfires and soldiers occupied with various tasks, fixing gear, fetching and carrying, honing weapons. Lieutenant Rennard’s scouts suddenly appeared and filed into the encampment behind them. Enver’s count had been accurate.

  “Larson!” Rennard shouted. “Tend these horses.”

  A soldier trotted up to them and gathered reins and Bane’s lead rope. When she reached for Mist, Enver said, “She will follow. You need not lead her.” And then, “Be wary of the pony. He is quick to bite.”

  “Thank you for the warning, m’lord.” Her eyes were large as she took in both Enver and the always elegant Mist.

  Karigan made sure to grab her longsword from her saddle before Condor was taken away, and slung it over her shoulder. Rennard led them toward a long, low building that was blessedly warm and dry within. It clearly served as a common room and dining hall for the encampment, with many long tables set up. There was a fireplace on either end, and through the dark gloom, Karigan espied officers seated at the far end deep in discussion. She started forward, and then to her astonishment, a man emerged from the shadows and hastened to her side.

  “Rider G’ladheon!” he exclaimed. “Am I ever glad to see you!”

  INTUITION

  “Master Destarion?” Karigan said in surprise. She had known he’d been reassigned to some rugged post in the north, but she had not expected to ever see him again. He was not a young man, and life with the River Unit had graven new lines into his face, and he had lost considerable weight.

  “You made it!” he said.

  “Made it?” Had he been expecting her?

  “Out of Blackveil, dear woman.”

  “Oh, uh, yes.” She noticed that everyone in the building was watching her and Destarion.

  “You must tell me all about it,” Destarion said, and then more quietly added, “and how the king is getting on.”

  “Of—of course.”

  Destarion receded back into the shadows, and Karigan and her companions continued forward and halted before the table of the officers.

  “So, Rennard,” said the man in the middle, “what have you dragged in today?”

  “A Greenie and her friends, Captain,” the lieutenant said.

  “Interesting-looking friends,” the captain said, his keen gaze falling on Estral and Enver.

  Karigan stepped forward. “I presume you are Captain Treman?”

  “Yes, indeed. And according to Destarion, you’d be Rider G’ladheon. Or do you prefer Sir Karigan?”

  “Rider G’ladheon is fine. Please allow me to introduce Lady Estral Andovian, heir of the Golden Guardian, and Enver of Eletia.”

  The officers gawked. Finally, the captain said, “What in the name of the gods are a Green Rider, a noble lady, and an Eletian doing here in my woods?”

  “King’s business,” Karigan replied. She had no reason to explain, and Treman would know that an explanation was not required.

  “Even the Eletian?”

  Karigan glanced at Enver. “Er, joint business between our realms.”

  “Truly, strange days have come upon us.”

  Estral now stepped forward. “Sir, my own business has little to do with the king’s. It was just convenient to travel with Rider G’ladheon and Enver.”

  “And what business might that be?”

  “I am searching for my father.”

  “Lord Fiori? I’d heard he passed through a lumber camp north of here some months ago.”

  Estral leaned over the table. “Please, if there is anything you can tell me . . .”

  “I don’t believe so, Lady Estral, but I’ll think on it. Why don’t you three sit with me by the fire and maybe we can get something warm in your bellies.”

  They drew chairs by the fire while Captain Treman issued orders for food and finished up with his officers. Sitting before a fire, Karigan thought, with a roof overhead, had never felt so good. She nodded off, only to be awakened, in what felt like mere moments later, by a soldier wanting to hand her a mug of hot tea.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, and she wrapped her hands around it.

  Another soldier brought them meat pasties, still hot from the oven, the dough blackened on the corners. There were also cups of steaming savory broth in which to dip the pasties or sip.

  “The lumber camp has a good kitchen,” the captain told them. He dragged a chair over so he could sit with them. “And fortunately, my unit has some good cooks.”

  He told them about the encampment while they ate, about the quiet winter with no direct encounters with Second Empire. “One group of them, mainly civilians, are holed up for the winter in the Lone Forest. We’ve seen sign of them a little north of here, but they’ve not dared come this far south in months.”

  When Karigan finished eating and was sipping her second cup of tea, the captain asked her about news back in Sacor City. Apparently, little had reached the River Unit since autumn, including the fact that the queen was expecting twins. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Destarion listening to every word.

  “That will cheer my people to hear,” the captain said. “But tell me, Rider, about Blackveil. I had heard a contingent had entered, and I see you survived, but did everyone make it back?”

  “No.” And so began the painful process of telling the captain about Blackveil and those who perished. She kept it as short as possible, not going into any great depth about her experiences there, and certainly nothing about her travel into the future. Her brief explanation appeared to satisfy him.

  “I know you are travel-weary,” he said, “so I appreciate your willingness to indulge my curiosity. I also understand how difficult it can be to describe a campaign to someone who wasn’t there, so no worries about that. But if I might ask one more question . . .” He pointed at her right shoulder. “Why do you wear the Black Shield insignia?”

  “I am . . .” Karigan began. “I have been made an honorary Weapon. Officially.”

  Did he look at her with some new respect? “You are not the usual Green Rider.”

  What was the “usual” Green Rider? she wondered. They were all different and accomplished in their own ways.

  “We like her anyway,” Estral said, bringing some levity to the conversation.

  Much to Karigan’s relief, the captain turned his questions to Estral. They discussed her missing father, and though Treman reacted with concern, he seemed to have little useful to offer.

  Karigan stood with her back to the fire. She saw Destarion sitting at a table with jars and herbs arrayed before him. Currently he was grinding dried leaves with mortar and pestle. It was awkward seeing him here. She’d always liked the master mender and had been under his care more than once, which was difficult to reconcile with the part he’d played in the scheme to ensure the king’s marriage to Estora. He’d gone so far as to dose Captain Mapstone so she would not interfere with the plans of the conspirators. Destarion was, in effect, a traitor, and his reassignment to the north was his sentence.

  She was torn between asking him how he was holding up, and demanding what in the hells he had thought he was doing when he took part in the scheme.

  He looked up and saw her gazing at him, and his expression became beseeching. She could not pretend she didn’t see him. Taking a breath to prepare herself, she excused herself and made her way to Destarion’s table.

  “Please, please sit, Rider.”

  “How have you been?” she as
ked, sliding onto the bench.

  He smiled sadly. “I am not as young as I used to be, but I am all right here, though when hostilities start up again, it may be a different story. I miss my family terribly, but I understand why I am here and will serve my penance without complaint.”

  Karigan was tempted to ask if he regretted his past decisions and actions, or would he do the same all over again if given the chance, but she decided she did not wish to know.

  “It gladdens me to hear of the twins,” he continued. “All I have ever wanted was what was best for the king. It sounds as if Vanlynn is doing well by him.”

  Karigan nodded.

  “She was my mentor, you know. She trained me. There is no finer mender in all of Sacoridia. And Ben? How is Ben doing?”

  “He is well,” Karigan replied.

  “I am very glad you made it back from Blackveil. I was listening to what you told Captain Treman. I hope you don’t mind. I am sorry about Rider Cardell. He was a mischievous young man, but had a good heart.”

  This was a different Destarion than Karigan had known. The old Destarion had been the top mender in all the land who commanded a large complement of menders just at the castle. He’d wielded his authority with calm assurance. This Destarion had folded in on himself. He moved his hands nervously and spoke in apologetic tones.

  “Do you mind my asking,” he said, “what happened to your eye?”

  She lightly touched the patch. “A shard . . . It was injured. After Blackveil.”

  “No doubt Vanlynn has taken good care of it,” he said, “but if you might let me have a look at it, I—”

  Karigan stiffened. “No.”

  He gazed down at the tabletop. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have. I understand that you wouldn’t want me to—”

  “It’s not that,” she said. “Even Ben couldn’t fix it.” She, of course, would not tell him the real reason why she wouldn’t let him see her eye.