Green Rider

“As you can see,” Miss Bunchberry said, “we’ve observed proper etiquette. Letitia wouldn’t have us dine in the kitchen, though Bay and I normally sup there. What fun it is to see Mother’s old table in use once again. From time to time, relatives or my father’s old colleagues would descend upon Seven Chimneys. Letitia would cook and bake all day in anticipation. Those were grand times.”

Goose and sauce were passed around, along with the last of the winter squash, legumes, mushrooms, and dressing. A slice of warm bread spread with creamy honey butter melted in Karigan’s mouth. It was like a traditional Midwinter Feast, except it was spring. Miss Bayberry poured Rhovan red wine in each goblet and Karigan could only guess at the vintage.

It was like spending an evening with a pair of spinster aunts, eccentric as they were, but oozing comfort and a sense of home. The canny intensity Karigan had witnessed before seemed to dissipate as the evening wore on and the wine bottle made its rounds.

When they had eaten all they could, they removed to the parlor where glasses of brandy awaited them, and the fire roared in the hearth as cheerfully as ever. Karigan sank into the sofa with the hummingbirds carved on the armrests, her goblet in one hand, and she told tales of her mostly silly classmates and Selium. Bunch and Bay raised eyebrows upon learning that the hot springs could be pumped directly into a bathtub.

“It was so long ago that we lived in Selium,” Miss Bayberry said. “I don’t think half the school or museum buildings you described were there when we were. Otherwise, the city hasn’t changed much.” She swirled her brandy in her goblet and smiled in a self-satisfied way. “Child, you have enlivened this house more in one day than we have been able to in years. My sister and I will remember your visit for some time to come. I can only hope that you have found your stay with us equally interesting.”

Karigan nodded emphatically. Interesting was an understatement.

“Miss Bunch tells me you spent the afternoon in the library. What did you think?”

“It was . . . unusual.”

Miss Bayberry cast a severe glance at her sister. “Bunch, did you just leave her there? Did you explain nothing? Give no forewarning?”

“But Father’s old things are so harmless—”

“That is not the point. We caused our guest undue surprise. That was not proper.”

Miss Bunchberry gazed sulkily at her lap. “The moonstone lit at her touch.” Her voice was nearly a whisper.

Miss Bayberry scrutinized Karigan anew, and something of that hidden intensity reignited—and it wasn’t just the glow of the wine or brandy. “My dear child, that stone has shone no light for many a year. How you called upon the moonbeam to glow I can only wonder. Do you have any idea?”

Karigan shook her head, wary. “No. I—I was just curious about the objects on the table, and when I picked up the crystal, it lit up.” She wondered if she had somehow offended Miss Bay, but the old woman’s expression was glad.

“What else did you observe?”

Karigan described her experiences with the bottled ship and the harp. “They were very odd.” She shuddered, remembering the tempest she had caused. “I mean, they possessed qualities that were so real. I know it’s illusion . . .” Her statement was met with lingering silence. “It was illusion . . . wasn’t it?”

Miss Bayberry leaned forward and, evading the question, asked, “What else did you observe?”

Karigan licked her lips, a little nervous now. “Well, the harp sounded so human, unlike the lap harps my friend Estral plays, and she has access to the finest instruments in all of Selium.”

“My dear child, arcane objects are . . . unusual. Of course, when you first observed the things on my father’s table, they seemed relatively normal. After handling them a bit, you discovered otherwise. The bottle, the moonstone, and the harp are a few among several devices Father collected over the years in order to comprehend magic. He discovered, like you, that arcane objects can take on some very lifelike qualities.

“That harp has a very dark history. It was originally made by the finest craftsmen at the turn of the First Age, for a wealthy aristocrat. It was carved as no other instruments of those times, and inlaid with precious jewels, themselves cut by masters of lost Kmaern for whom rocks and gems were living things.

“The aristocrat was pleased by what he saw, but not with what he heard. When strung, the instrument sounded like any other well-crafted harp. The aristocrat, it seems, could not live with a harp that was not extraordinary. Remember now, this was a dark time. Magic was more accessible and understood back then. Mornhavon the Black was at the height of his power, and dark magic had a profound influence on many people. It was difficult to wield any magic without the taint of the dark, so strong was Mornhavon.”

Miss Bayberry paused to take a sip of brandy. She carefully replaced her goblet on the table before her, clasped her hands, and bent toward Karigan to resume her story. “It’s not known if the aristocrat had innate powers himself, or if another did the work for him, but he had the finest singers known in the lands, including Eletians who have the fairest voices of all, brought to his keep. Using methods unknown today, he extracted the voices from the singers and melded them into magical strings. Child, what you heard were voices from centuries ago.”

Karigan remembered, with clarity, the crystalline voices of the strings . . . strains of some ancient past forcibly carried into the future . . . like ghosts. “What happened to the singers?”