Green Rider

Karigan copied the captain’s bow, rather plain and straightforward in her mind, compared to the traditional bows of the clans. The king was young for a king, or at least for what Karigan thought a king should be. He was no more than ten or fifteen years older than herself, though an amber beard made him appear more mature. He reminded her of a younger version of someone she had once seen, but could not place who or where.

And his eyes. The almond-shaped brown eyes of the Hillander region where one could look out to sea, look out to the horizon and find nothing between land and sky but the constant undulations of waves. It was said that the folk of Hillander bore more saltwater in their veins than blood. And here the king sat trapped in his stone castle, in the stifling static air. He had the look of a young shipmaster stranded inland, brooding under heavy weather, yearning for free air and the open expanse of water, the rhythmic curl of waves on the shore.

The king sat slumped and tired on his throne chair, his head propped on his hand. His lids hung low over his eyes as he listened to Captain Mapstone begin an introduction.

“Dismissed, Captain.”

The captain stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth hanging open until she remembered to close it. “Yes, Sire.” She flicked a warning look in Karigan’s direction, bowed, and left the throne. The terrier began to follow her out.

“Finder!” the king snapped, and the dog reluctantly stopped in his tracks, tail wagging, and watched the captain’s retreating back for a moment before curling up at Zachary’s feet.

What had been in the captain’s warning look? And now the king gazed at her. Boredly? Expectantly? She fidgeted and cast her eyes to the floor.

“Clan G’ladheon?” he asked. The abruptness of it caused Karigan’s heart to leap. “A bought clanship if I’ve been informed correctly.”

Karigan’s cheeks heated. “A clanship your grandmother sanctioned.” She nearly bit her tongue. It was just like her to speak without thinking.

Zachary blinked like a somnolent lion. “Captain Mapstone has told me something of your journey. Of course, my counselors and I witnessed your unusual entrance.” He paused, stroking his beard. “But, that’s all irrelevant at the moment. Do you play Intrigue, Karigan G’ladheon?”

“I, uh ...” The change in topic caused her tongue to stumble. What did he mean her journey was irrelevant? “I’ve played Intrigue.”

“Good.”

The king clapped for a servant. A chair was brought for Karigan, and a table was set between them, the game placed on top.

“It’s not as good without a Triad,” the king said. “Perhaps I should have had the captain stay, but this will do. I’ve not played for some time.”

“But—”

“Green or blue pieces?”

“Green, but—”

The king chuckled gleefully. “Perfect.”

Karigan then realized what color she had chosen and groaned. Why did the king want to play a game? Why was her journey irrelevant? He actually stepped down from his throne chair and sat on the bottom step of the dais, and set up the game for two players. The pieces were little wooden figures. Karigan thought the king would possess a game made of silver and gold and jewels, but his set was far cruder than any she would have imagined.

“Now roll the dice, and we will see who possesses the stronger strategy.”

The sleeping lion came to life as the game progressed. The king managed to counter any move Karigan made. Her pieces were pushed back, captured, and “killed.” He lured her spies into fatal traps and goaded her knights into fights they could not possibly win.

The fresco paintings of Zachary’s ancestors glared down at Karigan from the ceiling. She clasped and unclasped her hands under Zachary’s relentless attack, as each of her knights was killed by common infantrymen. Her mind screamed that this was not what the king should be doing, that he must be insane to want to play games rather than hear of her journey. And yet there they sat, he on the dais step, she on the chair, each the reflection of the other as they concentrated on the game, as the sunlight penetrated the throne room at a greater slant, then began to recede like a blade withdrawn.

After two hours, Karigan sat limp in her chair. Zachary knocked her king off the board with a flick of his forefinger, and frowned at her. “You told me you’ve played Intrigue before.”

“I have.”

“That was one of the sloppiest games I’ve ever seen. You had messengers. Green Riders use special talents. Why didn’t you give your messengers special talents?”

“It’s a game. You can’t just give pieces special abilities. I mean, the rules—”

“Listen to me, Karigan G’ladheon.” The king bent forward, his face just inches from hers. “You can’t play at Intrigue and expect to win by adhering to the rules. Use what is available to you. If I did not,” he added in a whisper, “my portrait would have been painted on the ceiling long ago. Do you see the space there behind the late king, my father?”

Karigan followed his gaze toward the ceiling where King Amigast was painted beside Queen Isen. His eyes were solemn and almond-shaped like Zachary’s. A long blue robe fell to his feet, and while most of the other figures on the ceiling held weapons or scepters, King Amigast held an open book. On his other side was nothing but empty ceiling, a blank canvas. A chill tingled in Karigan’s spine.

“That space,” Zachary said, “is for me.”