She grimaced. The body was too heavy for her to drag into the woods by herself, and how would she bury it? She most certainly hadn’t packed a shovel. It seemed wrong to leave the body out in the open, but . . . she had to try. Then, as if a voice said to her, Don’t waste the time, she backed away from the body and took up the reins of the horse.
And still she hesitated. The least she could do was leave the saber with the messenger to show how bravely he had died. But what if she met up with the people who had struck him with the arrows? She would need some kind of defense, even if a saber wasn’t any good against arrows. Practicality won out, and she slid the blade back into its sheath.
The messenger had told her to fly, but running the horse to his death would serve no purpose. She would walk him and mount up only when he seemed at least partially recovered.
The horse was a sorry-looking beast. His legs were long but thick; obviously he had been bred to run fast for distances with no thought to aesthetics. His neck reminded Karigan of her father’s descriptions of some long-necked wild beasts he had seen on one of his voyages. The horse’s coarse chestnut hide was crisscrossed with old scars.
“I wish I knew your name,” Karigan told him as they plodded along.
The horse curved his neck to look, not at her, but behind her. She glanced back, too. The messenger’s body had already fallen behind a bend in the road, and there was nothing to see besides the pointy shadows of spruce trees shrinking as the morning progressed.
She shuddered. The messenger’s twisted, tortured form would stay in her memory for some time to come. She had helped lay out the corpses of old aunts and uncles for funerals, but they had died peacefully in their sleep, not with arrows driven into their backs.
This message business was a huge change of plans. Home was out of the question. Karigan bit her lip. Her father would be aggrieved enough by her suspension from school, and now she was running off on some reckless errand without having considered the consequences.
She could almost hear her aunts enumerating her deficiencies: Feckless, Aunt Gretta would say; Willful, Aunt Brini would add; Impulsive, Aunt Tory would declare. Aunt Stace would sum it all up with, G’ladheon, and all the aunts would nod knowingly in mutual agreement.
Karigan thrust a strand of hair behind her ear. She could not help but concur with her aunts’ assessment. It seemed she always made the wrong choices—the kind that got her into trouble.
It was too late to turn back now, though. She had made a promise. She had sworn to the Green Rider she would take the message to King Zachary himself.
She had visited Sacor City once as a young child, and at the time, elderly Queen Isen, Zachary’s grandmother, reigned over Sacoridia. Zachary’s father had ascended the throne only to fall ill and die a short time later. Zachary’s ascension to the throne had been challenged by his brother, Prince Amilton, but why, she did not know. She assumed all royals engaged in squabbles whenever power and prestige were at stake.
Now her ignorance annoyed her. What could be happening in the land that meant a life-or-death message for the king? What did the message contain that was so vital someone was willing to kill for it? She longed to look at the contents of the message, but the Green Rider had ordered her not to.
Belatedly, she wondered how much danger she had put herself in. She was all alone amidst the wild forest lands of Sacoridia. She carried a message for which a man had been pursued and killed. She let out a trembling sigh, suddenly yearning for home; to be held in the safety of her father’s arms and to hear her aunts gossiping in the kitchen. She missed the big old house in Corsa and the predictable and unimportant concerns of everyday life that pulsed and flowed through it.
The recklessness of her decision to carry the message truly set in. With a sinking feeling, she knew it would be a long time before she saw home again.
Three wooden arms branched from a cedar signpost planted in a grassy island in the middle of the intersection. From the south arm hung a shingle indicating the River Road. More shingles, carved with the names of towns along the way, hung beneath it. If Karigan were going home, she would take this road.
The middle arm pointed to the well-maintained Kingway which bore east, the most direct route to Sacor City and King Zachary. Her father had said the Kingway would one day be paved all the way from Sacor City to Selium, increasing commerce and prosperity for all the villages situated along it.
The third arm pointed toward an ill-kept, overgrown track. The one shingle hanging from it bore one ominous word: North.
Estral, Karigan’s good friend at school—her only friend at school—had hinted there was more activity up north in recent months and that King Zachary had reinforced the borders with armed patrols. But Estral, who pursued the craft of the minstrels and seemed to come by incalculable amounts of information from unguessable sources, never said exactly where the trouble was emanating from. Mysterious Elt Wood lay due north, but somehow she couldn’t fathom anything from that strange place deigning to bother Sacoridia.
The horse had finally cooled down enough for Karigan to mount up. The saddle was a tiny thing compared to what she was used to. A light saddle made sense if you wanted to travel speedily, which she supposed most messengers did, but it would take some getting used to. It felt like there was nothing between her rump and the horse’s bony spine.
The message satchel was strapped to the front of the saddle, and a bedroll, two small packs, and the saddle sheath to the cantle. She would investigate the contents of the saddlebags later when she was well down the Kingway. Maybe there would even be food inside one of them.