“North is not friendly to representatives of the king, or would-be representatives.” Abram thrust the poker at the logs on the fire. A flurry of sparks shot up the chimney. “As I said, I won’t go there myself. Already I’ve been accused of being a forestry regulator.”
“Is there any way to go around North?”
Abram shook his head. “If you travel east or south from here, the River Terrygood lies in your path. At this time of the year, its current runs strong and deadly. Should you attempt to ford it, even your big horse would be swept away like a leaf in a whirlpool. At midsummer or later you might ford it, but not now. The only bridge is in North.”
Karigan sagged against her pillow. “Is there any good news?”
“There is. I will lead you through the woods to a point on the North Road, not far from town. In the woods, I can ensure your safety.”
Karigan nodded. “That sounds encouraging. What about town itself?”
Abram grimaced, or at least his whiskers drooped. “I will not go upon the road which is beyond my boundaries. You must travel the rest of the way yourself. You should reach town by evening, and will probably wish to stay the night. Not the best of circumstances, but I know of a respectable inn that caters to the few merchants who travel this way. It is called the Fallen Tree. It is costly, but worth it. Avoid all others. When you leave North, you will find on the other end of town there is a horse track leading east and then south. It will take you partway to Sacor City. The rest will be through open countryside.”
Karigan tucked her knees up to her body and wrapped her arms around them. It was beginning to sound like she was nearing the end of her journey and she grinned. “Thank you, Abram. It won’t be long now before I give King Zachary his message.”
“Do not let your guard down, no matter how near the king’s castle you are,” Abram cautioned. “It would be easy to do so, with this as the last leg of your journey. Be watchful.”
“I promise.”
“Good . . .” Abram tapped his pipe against the fireplace. “Then on to more pleasant topics. You told me of your adventures, so now I will tell you some of my tales.”
Abram spoke long into the night. His stories took shape slowly and deliberately, his voice low and melodious. He told stories of other Green Riders who had passed through his domain:
“Disaster seemed to follow young Mayer like a crow. The shelf would fall down when he placed a book on it, or he’d trip out the door. One night he accidentally kicked a bucket of ashes on the floor and nearly set the cabin on fire.” Abram pointed to a charred spot on the floor near the fireplace. “Disaster helped him on one ride, however. He was in Afton Village, which is in Coutre Province, during market. He fell right off his horse onto a fruit stand. The woman tending it, the daughter of a wealthy farmer, married him. Mayer no longer carries messages on dangerous rides, but tends blueberry barrens on his own acreage.”
Abram chuckled with the memory. “There was Leon, a fierce gambler by all accounts, who came from a questionable background before he joined the messenger service. He reformed many of his ways, but never the gaming spirit, and he used to sit with me before this very fire trying to swindle the last copper from me. More often than not he succeeded. Until the very last game.
“And there was Evony, Evony with her beautiful voice who should have been at Selium for music instead of wearing the colors of the Green Riders.” He shook his head sadly.“She was killed by a noble angered by the message she bore.”
Abram’s stories spanned more than fifty years, slowly unfolding the heritage of the Green Riders. He remembered the name of every Rider he met, along with some small detail.
“Will you remember me?” Karigan asked.
“Indeed I will. In you I see the spirit of the First Rider, she who carried the messages when Sacoridia was newly created. Even your name speaks of ancient times. Galadeon it would’ve been pronounced in the old days, not much different than today. Its meaning, however is beyond my knowledge. I expect to hear more about you in the years to come, young Karigan. This mission of yours is just a beginning.”
“I just want it to be over with.”
Abram shook his head. “Green Riders are always in haste. Do you know there is a legend that, during the Long War, the messenger horses of the Sacor Clans could fly? Your big red doesn’t look likely to sprout wings, so I don’t take the legend literally. Perhaps the horses were extraordinarily swift. Who’s to say? The old days were odd and rife with magic. I imagine the legend is what inspired the winged horse insignia of the Green Riders.”
Abram told tales in his melodious voice until Karigan couldn’t keep her eyes open. Vaguely, she was aware of him pulling a blanket up to her shoulders and leaving as if in a cloud of smoke, the scent of tobacco lingering behind.
Green Riders trampled through Karigan’s dreams. They galloped along wooded trails, horse hooves thundered over wooden bridges. A horse and Rider surged up a mountain slope, slipping and staggering on loose gravel and sand. A toothy range of snow-capped purple mountains loomed behind them.
A messenger cantered her horse along the shore, and hooves splashed through ocean waves and sent up cascades of salty spray. The Rider laughed in pure joy. Another Green Rider rode down a cobbled city street, face grim and saber bare. The throb of hooves grew like a heartbeat.
Karigan sat astride The Horse, kicking up snow as they galloped through some winter scene. The sound of hoofbeats merged into great wingbeats as The Horse sprouted white feathered wings and flew up above the snow, above the woods and mountains, through the blue of the sky, and higher yet among the stars. Here they flew among the immortals of the heavens, past the Sword of Sevelon, past the Hunter’s Belt, past the Throne of Candor the Great, and Aeryc and Aeryon smiled on them.