Karigan reached into her satchel again and there was a flicker of gold when her hand re-emerged. “This was Bard’s.” But when she handed it over, it was not a brooch perfectly shaped as a horse rising into air, wings outstretched for flight. No, it was a formless blob of melted gold.
“The eruption of the wards killed him,” Karigan said. “The magic of the wards did this to his brooch.”
Before Laren could reply, Karigan bowed again to Zachary and hastened from the throne room as fast as her sore feet could carry her.
Laren gazed down at the brooch and the melted gold in her hand. The brooches always found their way home when a Rider met his or her end. It was astonishing, really. The Rider might be gone, but the brooches always returned home to carry on the mission of the messenger service. It had been this way for a thousand years.
We are mortal and fleeting in our time on Earth, she thought, but these endure. She closed her fingers around them. The brooches may return, but there were too few who heard the Rider call these days. She had far more brooches than Riders. Would someone one day hear the call and wear Ereal’s, as had generations of Riders before her? Or, would it remain untouched in the coffer in Laren’s quarters with the others as the messenger service dwindled out of existence?
And what of Bard’s brooch? Could it be reforged? How could an ordinary blacksmith see it to reforge it? Even if it could be reforged, where was the mold that was used in the original making of the brooches? Would Bard’s lump of gold even retain its magic?
Laren shook her head. In this Age, there were many questions, for the answers had been lost. Like the secrets of the D’Yer Wall . . . Things that must have been common knowledge at one time were unknown to the current generation.
If I had some of that old knowledge, she wondered, would Bard and Ereal still be alive?
It was impossible to say, and of no use to even consider, for it would change nothing. She would never hear Bard sing again, nor would she ever watch on in satisfaction as Ereal and Crane once again crossed the finish line of a Day of Aeryon race far ahead of every other competitor.
No, she had but her own experience and wisdom to rely upon, and often those seemed paltry enough. Her shadow was growing heavy, indeed.
“Laren?”
She started, not realizing the king had come to her. He touched her wrist.
“It is eleven hour and we’re all tired.”
Eleven hour? Only then did Laren register the dreadful bell clanging again down in the city. When had ten hour passed them by?
Old Sperren finally stirred. “What have I missed?” he demanded of Colin. “I see food here. What have I missed?”
“It is my wish,” Zachary said quietly to her, “that you return to your quarters and rest. You’ve been standing by my side all day. We all shall retire, and perhaps when we are refreshed by a night’s sleep, we can examine things anew.”
Laren was so relieved to be dismissed, she could have kissed him on the cheek, but professional restraint held her back. It might have been all right when he was but a boy and she his “big sister,” but not now, and not here.
As she started away, Major Everson rose from the table and called after her.
“Yes, Major?”
“That Rider of yours,” he said, “young G’ladheon. Should you ever feel inclined to release her from the messenger service, I’d be more than happy to sponsor her into the light horse.”
Laren was so taken aback she almost laughed in his face.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Never, was what she thought, but what she said was, “You may ask Rider G’ladheon herself, and I shall respect her decision should she choose such an opportunity.” Laren felt safe knowing it unlikely the Rider call would release her.
“Perhaps I shall. She comported herself well and without complaint through the duration of our travels, helping with the wounded and camp duties. I had my doubts, her being the daughter of a merchant and all, but frankly I could use more like her.”
Laren raised an eyebrow. If the Rider call did not prevent Karigan from joining the light horse, her distaste for the sort of elitism exhibited by its members would.
Laren walked away thinking she could not afford to lose another Rider, but feeling secure Karigan would not, could not, switch over to the light horse no matter the enticements and privileges that might accompany it.
So I hope.
“Look at these.” Rider Mara Brennyn raised a pair of muddy boots to eye level. There were cracks in the soles and gaps where sewn seams had gone loose.
“Karigan’s?” Laren asked.
Mara nodded vigorously. “She practically walked all the way home because of Condor’s injury.”
“Injury?” Laren groaned inwardly at her own dull responses, but it was late and she was very tired. After taking leave of the king, she had crossed the castle grounds to Rider barracks to ensure Karigan had been settled in. Mara, who now so often filled in as her second, had met her at the door, boots in hand.
Now they stood in the Rider common room, a comfortable place with a stone fireplace and a long table smoothed and notched from use by generations of Riders. It had probably been here since the days of Gwyer Warhein, the Green Rider commander who had ordered the barracks to be built two hundred years ago. There were worn, overstuffed chairs facing the fireplace, a rocking chair or two, and shelves stocked with a few books and games. A single lamp on the table splashed a yellow glow across Mara’s face.
“Condor got cut across the fetlock joint,” Mara was saying, “during the battle. It is healing quite well, thanks no doubt to his Rider who walked most of the way.” She rolled her eyes.