First Rider's Call
Page 178
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The Riders did so, some looking at one another with questions in their eyes. Yates stood on Karigan’s right, and Tegan stood on her left.
“Karigan learned of an old tradition practiced by Lil Ambrioth and her Riders,” the captain said. “A way to remember lost comrades.” She then explained what to do. “And so I shall begin by remembering Ereal M’Far thon, Rider-lieutenant.”
“Ereal,” the group chorused.
Constance was next. “I remember Tierney Caldwell.”
“Tierney.”
“I also remember Ereal M’Farthon,” said Ty, with head bowed.
“Ereal.”
He must, Karigan thought, remember her every time he mounted Crane.
“Joy Overway,” Connly said. “I remember Joy.”
“Joy.”
As the Riders named the fallen, Karigan kept an eye toward the ceiling. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the Weapons dimmed the lamps in the records room. They were perfect for this duty, for they could be like shadows that vanished into the background.
Beyond the halo of dimming light, Karigan also perceived the others, the ghosts, watching and listening. She wondered if there were a few Rider ghosts among them looking upon the scene with pride.
Yates sniffled beside her. “Justin.” It was all he could choke out.
“Justin.”
“I remember Bard Martin,” Karigan said.
“Bard.”
The Riders continued with more names—Ephram, F’ryan, and even Lil.
A light blinked to life above the ceiling, and another, and another. As Weapons worked in the chamber above to light lamps, images captured in glass emerged in a riot of color, unblemished, unfaded, and unfractured by time.
It took a few moments for the Riders to even notice, but when they did, they craned their necks and whispered in wonderment as the tableau unfolded, revealing their long darkened heritage.
Lil Ambrioth, her horn at her hip, stood tall in the stirrups of her fiery steed, her arm outstretched behind her toward Riders who rode prancing and rearing horses. One Rider unfurled the standard of the winged horse, and another the black and silver of Sacoridia. Many of the Riders flourished weapons in the face of a cowering foe.
The enemy retreated, threw itself down before Lil for mercy, or lay dead on the field of battle. They were rendered in black, gray, and crimson.
The backdrop was the deep evergreen forest representing burgeoning life, and blue-purple mountains, a symbol of strength. A storm receded over the mountains representing the retreat of the enemy and war.
The lamps revealed another scene worked into the domed glass, that of Lil draped in a cloak of green and kneeling before a moon priest. He held his hands up in benediction, while King Jonaeus looked on, his crown a bright glowing gold.
In yet another scene, the Eletian king, Santanara, handed Lil the winged horse banner, while both Riders and Eletians stood in attendance.
In the center of the dome, in a sky of midnight blue and silvery constellations, the god Aeryc, with crescent moon balanced on his palm, looked upon the Riders with beneficence and approval.
“Karigan learned of an old tradition practiced by Lil Ambrioth and her Riders,” the captain said. “A way to remember lost comrades.” She then explained what to do. “And so I shall begin by remembering Ereal M’Far thon, Rider-lieutenant.”
“Ereal,” the group chorused.
Constance was next. “I remember Tierney Caldwell.”
“Tierney.”
“I also remember Ereal M’Farthon,” said Ty, with head bowed.
“Ereal.”
He must, Karigan thought, remember her every time he mounted Crane.
“Joy Overway,” Connly said. “I remember Joy.”
“Joy.”
As the Riders named the fallen, Karigan kept an eye toward the ceiling. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the Weapons dimmed the lamps in the records room. They were perfect for this duty, for they could be like shadows that vanished into the background.
Beyond the halo of dimming light, Karigan also perceived the others, the ghosts, watching and listening. She wondered if there were a few Rider ghosts among them looking upon the scene with pride.
Yates sniffled beside her. “Justin.” It was all he could choke out.
“Justin.”
“I remember Bard Martin,” Karigan said.
“Bard.”
The Riders continued with more names—Ephram, F’ryan, and even Lil.
A light blinked to life above the ceiling, and another, and another. As Weapons worked in the chamber above to light lamps, images captured in glass emerged in a riot of color, unblemished, unfaded, and unfractured by time.
It took a few moments for the Riders to even notice, but when they did, they craned their necks and whispered in wonderment as the tableau unfolded, revealing their long darkened heritage.
Lil Ambrioth, her horn at her hip, stood tall in the stirrups of her fiery steed, her arm outstretched behind her toward Riders who rode prancing and rearing horses. One Rider unfurled the standard of the winged horse, and another the black and silver of Sacoridia. Many of the Riders flourished weapons in the face of a cowering foe.
The enemy retreated, threw itself down before Lil for mercy, or lay dead on the field of battle. They were rendered in black, gray, and crimson.
The backdrop was the deep evergreen forest representing burgeoning life, and blue-purple mountains, a symbol of strength. A storm receded over the mountains representing the retreat of the enemy and war.
The lamps revealed another scene worked into the domed glass, that of Lil draped in a cloak of green and kneeling before a moon priest. He held his hands up in benediction, while King Jonaeus looked on, his crown a bright glowing gold.
In yet another scene, the Eletian king, Santanara, handed Lil the winged horse banner, while both Riders and Eletians stood in attendance.
In the center of the dome, in a sky of midnight blue and silvery constellations, the god Aeryc, with crescent moon balanced on his palm, looked upon the Riders with beneficence and approval.
