Green Rider

If Devon only knew. Oh, all the counselors knew that Green Riders had “talents,” that they could do certain tricks, but if they all even knew to what extent magic was still used . . . Green Rider magic was true magic, not just something to perform after dinner for guests. Their magic was so taken for granted by the counselors that they forgot it was magic. At least the king was aware of the capabilities of his Green Riders, capabilities he utilized often—and exhaustively.

“Such weapons were used by Mornhavon the Black’s forces during the Long War,” King Zachary said. His aides looked at him aghast, as if he had suddenly arisen from the dead. Finder lifted his head at the sound of his master’s voice, and when he realized he wasn’t the center of his master’s attention, he dropped it down on his forepaws again.

It’s about time he spoke up, Laren thought. My credibility has been sinking on a fast boat.

“Soul-stealing weapons,” the king continued, “were usually arrows, but could also be spears, so long as the shaft was made of wood from Blackveil Forest.” The light flickered, as if simply naming the legendary forest held the power of the dark. Zachary combed his fingers through his beard, his eyes had grown distant again. “Strange, but I haven’t thought about Blackveil in a very long time.”

“Your Majesty,” Devon said, “with all due respect, the Long War was nearly a thousand years ago. For all we know, the old forest has withered and died. Or a thriving green forest exists there. Who really knows what is on the other side of the wall?”

“Who knows, indeed?” The king shrugged. “But I doubt a green, living forest has supplanted the evil heart of the old. I shouldn’t be so hasty to dismiss magic, Counselor. The potential for such powers never left the earth, though most of those who wielded them have. May I see the arrows?”

Laren handed them over, and the king scrutinized them, eyes squinted as if trying to make out some fine detail. Then he glanced at Laren.

“Captain, were you aware there were markings on these shafts?”

“Yes, Excellency. Master Galwin looked them over with a reading glass, but he didn’t know what to make of them.”

“They’ve the feel of Eltish script, but not. They are foul, not fair, and burn the eyes even as I try to read them. Probably some spells carved to ensure the arrows hit their mark, and to possess the soul. If they are soul stealers.” The king shuddered visibly, and gave the arrows back. “I hate to contemplate how this wood came here, and who made the arrows.”

The counselors fell into a thoughtful silence as they considered the ramifications of the king’s words. Before any one of them could speak again, however, a low growl issued from Finder’s throat, then a commotion broke out beyond the throne room doors. Excited voices drifted to them from the entryway.

“What is it this time?” Crowe muttered. “Another whirlwind?”

The king’s herald ran full tilt down the runner, his cheeks flushed red. He skidded to a halt before the king, and gave a cursory bow.

“Neff?” the king asked.

The herald straightened to attention, and a stray tuft of yellow hair fell into his face. “Your Excellency.” Neff drew his ceremonial trumpet to his lips, panted, and blasted five off-key notes. The brassy notes ricocheted around the chamber for some moments before Neff could continue with his breathless introduction. “May I present—”

The visitor was already striding down the runner. The advisors stood to their feet. Finder sat up with ears and head cocked.

“—his Lordship—”

The visitor glided as if on air, his cloak of many colors shimmered and floated behind him. A cowl concealed his face. The captain felt a certain thrill surge through her, a sense that something momentous was about to happen.

The visitor halted before them, and held his perfect hand up to stay Neff’s introduction. He dipped in a graceful bow, then eased the hood away from his face and head.

Laren was struck at once by the radiant gold of his hair sweeping his shoulders. If his hair was the sun, his eyes were full of sky, like a clear crisp winter day. With regal and fair bearing, yet a bearing of ease, the visitor gazed at the king and his advisors with a smile.

“I greet you, King Zachary, son of Amigast. It is long since I last passed within Sacoridia’s borders, but I find it fair as ever.”

Laren heard his melodious voice, but also reached out with her mind to see what she could read within him, this stranger. But he blocked her, and all she could discover about him was that he was well-shielded.

“Who are you?” Devon asked. Her voice, compared to the visitor’s, was as brassy as Neff’s trumpet.

“I am Shawdell of Eletia.” He waited for the astonished gasps to circulate around the advisors. Only King Zachary remained composed, and it was upon him that the Eletian cast his brilliant blue gaze, as if to exclude all others. “We’ve many things to discuss.”

Karigan’s sleep was dreamless and long. She was half aware of nighttime dark softening to dusky gray; vaguely she knew someone occasionally checked in on her and left trays of food. She merely rolled over and continued to slumber.

When her body felt restless and no longer able to contain itself, she swung her legs over the bed and stretched. She pulled the curtains away from the window, and dropped them with the shock of light. Then, slowly this time, she peeled the curtains away and allowed her eyes to adjust.

The barracks sat on a slight rise. The ground slanted away to a pasture where horses grazed on lush spring grasses, and flicked their tails at flies. Beyond the field was a line of trees which softened a high stone wall behind it.