Green Rider

Half-dead and ravaged from bear claws and teeth, Mirwell had hunted down and killed the mother bear with nothing more than his own stubborn will and a dagger, just to prove he was not weak. He skinned her and ate of her raw heart, still warm and pulsating with blood. As he chewed, bear blood gushed in runnels down his beard and neck, and into his gaping wounds, blending with his own streaming blood. This, he thought, made their strength one.

Then, out of pity, he killed the mewling little cubs, too little to survive without their mother. Of the bear pelts, he made a mantle to wear on state occasions as a reminder to others of his strength.

Prince Amilton entered the chamber, glowering. His body-guards, simple Mirwellian guards, posted themselves outside the doorway. Not that he needed guards in the governor’s house, but he had become dependent on his two Weapons who usually never left his side, and now they were somewhere out in the great wide wilderness tracking the Greenie and leaving him, in his mind, vulnerable.

Regular militia made a poor substitute for one used to the fanatical, servile devotion exhibited by Weapons. Mirwell liked the idea of a more vulnerable Amilton. It made the prince more malleable.

Amilton was dressed in elegant silks with a purple scarf tied prettily around his collar—useless clothes more suited to impressing court butterflies than anything else. He did attract his share of female attention, but to what practical end?

The governor preferred a military look himself, and no one in his court, not even the ladies, wore such lavish fabrics or colors. Amilton looked a butterfly in House Mirwell.

Mirwell touched his brow and inclined his head, not deeply, but not insolently either. He was excused from a full formal bow because of his old hunting wounds.

“Wine, my prince?” he inquired.

Amilton waved a contemptuous hand at Mirwell and faced the fire. Mirwell poured him a gobletful anyway, and with great effort, limped over to the hearth to give it to him. Amilton took it wordlessly—and poured the contents on the floor.

Mirwell watched unblinking. “How may I serve you, my prince?”

Amilton turned on him, his expression haughty. His face was narrower, more sharp and severe than his brother’s, but he had the brown, almond-shaped eyes that characterized Clan Hillander.

“You shall not serve me the bottled urine you call wine.”

“I beg forgiveness, Liege. Rhovan is difficult to come by, and we save it for more . . . extravagant occasions.” It was no wonder the late king had chosen Zachary to rule—Amilton was a spoiled fop.

“You seem reluctant,” Amilton said, “to update me in the affairs concerning my brother.”

“Missives from Captain Immerez are few. He is hard on the road to ensure our plans go forward without mishap. You know as much about his progress as I do.”

“It seems I could have sent my own assassins months ago and have had done with it.”

“Of course we’ve tried that avenue to no avail—it lacked finesse. The assassins were promptly thwarted.”

“Yes, because you’ve permitted spies into your house who learned your plans. And my brother knows where I am.”

“If your brother knew the source of those assassins, don’t you think his Weapons would be upon us now? And why should he care where you are, so long as it is far away from Sacor City? My liege, we only suspect there is a spy in House Mirwell.”

“I believe my brother was suspicious enough of those last attempts to put a spy here. How do you know our next attempt won’t fail?”

“Every precaution is being taken, Liege. You must trust me in this.”

“I sincerely hope you don’t fail this time, Tomas.” Amilton left his goblet on the mantel and moved restlessly about the chamber. He paused by the open window which looked over the training fields of the provincial militia, and allowed the implied threat to hang in the air before he spoke again. “And you trust this Gray One?”

“Explicitly. He is of the old powers, and his alliance will bring such influence and glory to us that we can’t even begin to imagine it.”

Amilton leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed, his trim, angular figure silhouetted against blue sky. “I don’t particularly care for his ways. The groundmites, you know. But the Gray One’s forces ought to convince the other governors and nobles to ally with me.”

“His forces are great enough to take a province at a time, if necessary,” Mirwell said. “And he has offered you powers?”

“Not precisely. I fear he may betray us and offer them to my brother first.”

“It would be easiest for the Gray One, in his own self-interest to do so.”

“I agree.”

“Let us not fret,” Mirwell said. “He’ll have trouble convincing your brother that the D’Yer Wall should be crushed. Zachary is far too scrupulous.”

“And I’m not?” Not even a trace of a smile could be found on Amilton’s lips.

Wisely, Mirwell didn’t respond. He was growing used to Amilton’s little tirades.

“My father took what was mine by right of succession, and gave it to my brother. Do you know the humiliation I experienced when he was pronounced heir? I wanted to gut him right there in the throne room; right there in front of my father and his counselors, and those smirking lord-governors and clan chiefs. He was always favored in Father’s eyes. He always exceeded me in his studies, he excelled in hunting and riding. He revived the old Hillander terrier breed, and his kennel is the envy of the country.”