First Rider's Call
Page 51

When the full moon came, it reflected beautifully on the still water, as did the stars. It was like looking into the heavens themselves. Again, the only vision I saw was my own roguish facade, and the guides laughed, saying that only those pure of heart would know the “magic” of the lake.
I tried again, and to my astonishment, I believe I did see something . . . a young woman’s face, staring back at me. Comely she was, with bright eyes and long brown hair that fell thickly about her shoulders. Curiously she wore a brooch, golden, fashioned into a winged horse. But the vision faded quickly. I have never seen her before, yet there is a familiarity to her visage I do not understand.
THE STONE STAG
Karigan arrived at the practice field just as the last note of nine hour pealed from the bell tower down in the city. Soldiers were already at work in the practice rings going through drills, their efforts punctuated by grunts and the clack of wooden practice swords. The morning was hot and humid, and many were already stripped down to tunics.
A couple arms masters prowled about evaluating their trainees, pausing to correct them, and setting them off on additional sets of drills. One was Arms Master Gresia, who trained the Riders. She was a reasonable woman by all accounts, and Karigan watched after her longingly, knowing Drent was an altogether different matter. What did he have in store for her?
“Girl.”
Karigan resisted the impulse to cringe, and turned about knowing exactly to whom the voice belonged, and exactly what “girl” he addressed.
There Drent stood, in all his puffed up glory, fists planted on his hips and biceps bulging, his little eyes glaring. “While your right arm mends, we’re gonna do a little work on you. I’m going to teach you how to fight with your left side.”
If Captain Mapstone had been looking to punish Karigan, she had certainly succeeded. Karigan had one last straw of hope that just maybe she could get out of this.
“Shouldn’t we check first with Master Destarion? I mean—”
“Don’t Master Destarion me.” Drent hacked and spat. “What we’re doing is with his approval. We’re not touching your bad arm. Yet. In the meantime, the rest of your body is mine.” He gave her a harrowing grin. “Just because you have one bad arm doesn’t mean the rest of your body should waste away. I want ten laps around the practice field.”
“Laps?”
Drent’s eyes narrowed. “You got legs, don’t you?”
Karigan nodded.
“You will respond with yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“RUN!”
Karigan dropped her hand weight to the ground and sprinted off—
“HALT!”
—and she skidded to a stop, glancing back at Drent with trepidation.
“That hand weight you’ve brought,” he said, “you will carry it in your left hand. How are you going to fight with your left side if we do not build up the strength there? Now pick it up and RUN!”
Karigan did not hesitate one moment—she scooped up the weight, and she ran. By the third lap, sweat made her shirt and work tunic cling most unpleasantly to her skin, and the hand weight felt more like a hundred pounds instead of just one. Arms Master Gresia spotted her as she passed by, and fell in beside her with long, easy strides.
“I see Drent has taken you on,” she said.
Karigan grunted an affirmative.
“That’s quite an honor, you know,” Gresia said. “He takes on only the most gifted students, and leaves the rest to Brextol and me.”
How could the woman run and speak so effortlessly at the same time?
“Not honor,” Karigan puffed, “punishment. From Captain Mapstone.”
Gresia smiled at her. “Are you so sure?” Then she winked, and peeled off.
Karigan was sure. Absolutely sure. As she drove herself onward, she could only believe it was punishment.
The bright side was that the sooner Drent got her physically fit, the sooner she would be on a message errand riding away from him.
Laren smiled slightly as the city bell tolled nine hour.
Zachary glanced down at her from his throne chair. “You look like a cat who’s caught a mouse.”
Laren flashed him a quick grin, but did not explain. She wondered how Karigan would fare with Drent. Or maybe she should wonder how Drent would fare with Karigan. She and Mara had made a bet on how long Karigan would tolerate Drent’s style of training before it wore thin enough for her G’ladheon ire to flare up.
She couldn’t wonder for long, for moments later, Sperren pounded the floor with the butt of his castellan’s staff to begin the king’s public audience. The great oak doors of the firebrand and the crescent moon were drawn open, and a line of petitioners filed in. There were bored aristocrats, and awed countryfolk whose wide-eyed gazes took in the vast room with its tall windows, along with the Weapons who lined the walls in shadowy recesses, the banners, the soldiers, and most of all, their king.
Also standing in line were the frightened, the downtrodden, and the schemers. Every week it was the same, and every one of them wanted something from the king.
Zachary wore his king’s mask, an expression that would not permit any of the petitioners to guess what he was thinking, and in this way, he held an advantage over those less adept at hiding their emotions. If the common folk believed their king cold and forbidding, then let them judge him by his justice and impartiality.
The first pair brought forth by Neff the herald were sheep farmers disputing grazing rights. Zachary listened to their arguments, asked a few questions, then sat in silence for a few moments, stroking his beard. If he wished Laren to use her ability to read a petitioner, he would look at her, and she would nod or shake her head to indicate truth or falsehood.