Green Rider

The crackling on Amilton’s hands ceased, and he stroked his mustache. “You have archers up on the walls, don’t you, Sergeant?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then let them practice their aim.”

“Very good, my lord.” The soldier bowed and left the throne room at a trot.

Ignoring Jendara, Amilton’s eyes fastened on the small group of nobles still standing before him. “Well, well. If my eyes do not deceive me.”

He walked among them and circled the tall blonde in black, looking her up and down. “Lady Estora, how good to see you again.”

Jendara watched as Amilton took the woman’s pale hand in his and kissed it. The woman looked straight ahead, coolly ignoring him.

“You are beautiful as ever, my lady,” Amilton said. His other hand trailed along her cheek and down her neck.

Jendara’s knuckles whitened in clenched fists. It had always been this way, he looking at others than she.

“My lady,” Amilton said in soft tones, as his face came unbearably close to the woman’s. “My dear, dear heir of Coutre Province, I have some interesting ideas for you.”

Karigan was falling, falling from the sky, and she jerked convulsively to stop herself.

She opened her eyes to the soft glow of a single candle. She had been asleep or unconscious, and lay on stone. The hard, cold surface made her back ache.

The candle did little to reveal the room she was in. It was stone, like everywhere else in the castle, and though she could not discern dimensions, she sensed the walls to be close and the space vaultlike. The candlelight glinted on glass—vials and jars on a shelf. The room smelled faintly of herbs and mustiness; the air was thick as if it had been closed up for some time.

The candlelight splayed across the ceiling. Glyphs and runes were carved there, so ancient they surpassed the old Sacoridian language. Crudely wrought images of Aeryc and Aeryon were also carved there, and others. One was of a creature—part man, part bird—the god Westrion who escorted souls to the stars; and another was of his great steed, Salvistar, the harbinger of strife and battle.

She lifted her head up to look around some more, but it throbbed and she moaned. “Where am I?”

“The preparation room,” someone said.

Karigan’s heart skipped a beat. “Who’s there?”

The disembodied hands returned, this time accompanied by a disembodied face with familiar, stony features aglow in the candlelight.

“Fastion!”

The Weapon, who had so often guarded her door at Rider barracks, drew closer and she could make out the outlines of his broad frame. His black uniform had created the illusion of disembodiment.

“You are awake, then,” he said.

“Yes. What do you mean this is a preparation room?”

“It is for the dead,” he said. “It is here the royal death surgeons prepare the bodies of kings, queens, and the special ones chosen to reside in the Hall of Kings and Queens, or along Heroes Avenue. It is here they open the body from chin—” He put his finger to his chin and drew a line with it down to his stomach. “—to the gut so that the soul may escape the body and float to the heavens. It is an ancient rite.”

Karigan sat up, heart pounding. Suddenly she feared Fastion. Here she was, laid out on the funerary slab of royalty, where they were embalmed and prepared for the grave. What did Fastion intend?

“Easy,” Fastion said, “or you are going to start bleeding again.” Then he must have recognized her fear, for he crossed his arms and said, “If I planned to prepare you for death, I wouldn’t have bound up that sword wound, and your soul would have been in the heavens long ago.”

Karigan tentatively touched her side where Jendara’s blade had cut her. It was indeed bound with linens.

“Lots of bandages here,” Fastion said.

“For wrapping the dead.”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry I mistrusted you, but it has been a very long day, and this is strange. . . .”

“It is strange for me, too. This room has . . . memories for me.” Fastion’s eyes roamed the room as if in search of images of the past. “Before I became a Weapon for King Zachary, I was a tomb guard. I guarded King Amigast in his death, and watched over the surgeons lest they did something to damage him or impair his soul. As I said, the rites are ancient.”

“I would like to get off this slab,” Karigan said. It was too much.

Fastion put his hand on her shoulder and pressed her back. “I realize how uncomfortable this must be, but you have to rest while you can. You seem weak, and on more than account of blood loss. We can talk while you recover. But first, I need to know if you have news of the king.”

“He lives.”

Joy crossed Fastion’s normally impassive face, and any doubt of his intentions faded completely. “Then there is hope,” he said.

Karigan told him of the day’s events, and about her purpose at the castle. “I must return to them and tell them what I’ve seen. My own father is trapped in the throne room with Amilton and Jendara.”

“The traitor!” Fastion broke in with vehemence. “I would have taken her on in the corridor, but I had my arms full with you.”

“Sorry,” Karigan said.

“Do not apologize. I’m glad I could help after what you have told me. Killing Jendara would have brought me some satisfaction, but it would have raised an alarm and ruined all hope. You see, I’ve been trying to reach the tombs. I expect to find others there, more Weapons. I am hoping they have been forgotten by Amilton, or they have been able to resist attacks by his forces.”