Karigan glowered. “I don’t care. I just want to get out of these green clothes and go home. I’ve done enough here. You can’t hold me here against my will.”
The captain’s face grew unreadable.“There are a few things you must understand, Karigan. First of all, you are not being held here. At least, not anymore. The king requested that you attend his ball—quite an honor and one that few Green Riders experience. Secondly, you carried F’ryan Coblebay’s message here in a way no Green Rider will ever forget. We may not understand why such a message, seemingly unimportant, was so pursued by the Mirwellians and the Shadow Man, but it doesn’t lessen your deed. Thirdly, we would like you to stay with us for a while so we can understand the Wild Ride.” Then she added very quietly, “And you’ve the brooch.”
Karigan stood up, the wooden floor groaning beneath her feet. She peered out the window. The last rays of sun caressed the pasture where Mel was out banging on a bucket of grain to lure the horses in for the night. “I don’t care about the brooch. You can keep it.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. It has accepted you.”
Karigan turned on the captain. “Everyone keeps referring to me as a Green Rider. I am not a Green Rider and I don’t want to be a Green Rider. I just want to go home. My father probably assumes I’m dead by now.”
“I dispatched a Rider upon your arrival to inform him otherwise.” Captain Mapstone rubbed her neck scar. “Whether you act as a Green Rider or not is up to you, but I’ll warn you now, that you will always hear the rhythm of hoofbeats in your dreams.” She stood brusquely to her feet. “I recommend you appear at the king’s ball as a Green Rider. Then, Karigan G’ladheon, you may go home as you will.” Without another word, she left.
Karigan looked out the window with a sigh. She would never get home at this rate, and things were only getting worse rather than better. She caught some movement near a tree about a hundred paces from her window. Weapon, she thought, but F’ryan Coblebay looked back at her, his features pained. Without movement, or the flick of an eyelash, he disappeared.
F’ryan Coblebay’s message had been delivered. Why did his ghost still follow her?
MIRWELL
“Let go of my arm.” Mirwell batted Beryl’s hands away. Normally he would enjoy her touch, but not now, and not here at the entrance to King Zachary’s throne chamber. Imagine that Greenie nearly knocking him over as if he were no more than a common servant! They had no respect for their betters. “I can make it on my own two feet,” he grumbled to his aide. It was bad enough having to lean on her for support all the way from the courtyard, down the long castle corridors, until they finally reached the great oak doors of the firebrand and crescent moon.
The herald was bearing the standard of Mirwell down the runner, announcing in high-pitched tones the arrival of Lord-Governor Tomastine II.
Mirwell laughed gruffly.
“What is it, my lord?” Beryl asked, stoic as ever.
“Look to the king, my dear. Either my vision has deteriorated greatly, or for the first time since His Excellency’s ascension to the throne, the bit—” He swallowed suddenly and amended, “Captain Mapstone isn’t by his side in my presence.” Mirwell glanced at the Weapons by the door to assess whether or not they had caught his near indiscretion, but they stood mute and glassy-eyed like wax figures in a diorama at the Sacor City War Museum. “Unnatural,” he muttered.
Beryl cast questioning eyes on him.
“The captain,” he said, “do you see her?”
“No, my lord. Your eyes haven’t failed you.”
“I thought not! Can’t get around as well as I used to, but I can see as well as any old owl.”
A shrill trumpet blast was their cue to make their way down the runner to the king’s throne.
Mirwell straightened his shoulders despite a back that protested after days of arduous travel, and cleared his throat. “Now remember,” he whispered to Beryl, “keep just a pace behind me, no slower, no faster. We’ll make it look natural, right? Make him wait some.” Mirwell adjusted the bear pelt on his shoulders, which he wore for state occasions no matter what the heat. It reminded all that he, Tomastine II, though he be old, was still the same man, the strong man, who with only a dagger, had slain a bear that would have killed a lesser man.
Mirwell made his way down the runner, slow and deliberately, as if carrying his weight with great dignity. He ignored the gravelly pain in his knee that intensified with each step, and he concealed the limp as best he could. The effort, combined with the heavy pelt, caused sweat to trickle down his temples.
Beryl, true to his command, remained precisely a pace behind him. He imagined her shoulders thrown back, the erect-ness of her spine, and the tilt of her chin all communicating: I am of Mirwell and I serve with pride. The very thought made his heart swell and a tear fill his eye, the same way the Arms Parade did on his birthday—Mirwell’s own provincial holiday. Oh, there were few sights so exhilarating as hundreds of columns of soldiers and horsemen with shining helms, marching and riding in precise formation down Mirwellton’s main thoroughfare.
The herald stood at attention catty-corner to the king’s throne, trumpet tucked under one arm, and the Mirwell banner supported on its ceremonial pike leaning against the other. Mirwell noted, with some surprise, a chair recently vacated, and a game of Intrigue set before the king.