Green Rider
Page 23
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
The Horse was tacked, the saddlebags bulging to capacity. His chestnut coat glowed in the sun—someone, probably the invisible Rolph, had given him a bath and thorough brushing, and he looked handsome despite his gangly shape. Karigan gave him a companionable slap on the neck.
“Before you go, child,” Miss Bayberry said from the front step, “we’ve a few things for you.”
Karigan glanced at the bulging saddlebags and felt the extra weight in her pack. “You’ve already given me so much—all the food and a change of clothes. . . .”
“Nonsense, child. Those are just provisions. You have a little growing to do, and Bunch and I are concerned about your proper nourishment. We would like to give you some gifts. Very simple gifts.” She held forth a tiny sprig with dark green leaves. “My namesake, bayberry. When you find resolve failing you, when hope is lost, or you miss the deep scents of wild places, take a leaf and rub it between your fingers. The scent will refresh you, and perhaps you will think of me.”
Karigan smiled as she took the bayberry. The freshly cut branch was fragrant.
Miss Bunchberry had a shy smile on her face. She held in her palm a flower with four white petals. “Bunchberry is my namesake. There is a small patch in the woods behind the house just pushing up out of the ground with the spring. If you are in need of a friend, pluck a petal from the flower and let it drift in the wind. Perhaps you will also think of me. It won’t wither soon, child, as a good friendship should not.”
“One more thing, child,” Miss Bayberry said. She pressed something cool and smooth into Karigan’s hand.Thin slivers of light beamed through her fingers, even in the bright sunshine.
“The moonstone!” Karigan cried in awe. “I can’t take this. It was your father’s.”
“Don’t be silly,” Miss Bayberry said. “It has taken to you. I daresay it never lights up for Bunch or me. And as for it being Father’s . . . well, I’m sure he would have wanted you to keep it.”
Miss Bunchberry nodded in agreement. “Take it. It will light your way and keep you warm. It was the moonstones, they say, that held back the dark forces during the Long War. It should serve you well. May the moon shine brightly on your path.”
“Thank you . . . thank you.” Karigan’s eyes grew moist. “Is there anything I can do for you? Take word of you to kin in Sacor City?”
“My, but she’s taken to the part of being a messenger, hasn’t she, Bay?”
“Definitely, but I’m afraid that we have no kin in Sacor City. Just a cousin down south and you wouldn’t want to meet her.”
“Miss Poppy is very cranky,” Miss Bunchberry said.
“And that doesn’t even begin to describe her. Child, you need do nothing for us, for you’ve done so much by giving us a little company, and as I mentioned before, Green Riders assisted our father in his search for knowledge. We are simply returning the favor. If you are back this way, do visit. Just watch out for brigands and thieves on the road.”
Karigan didn’t think the sisters had gotten the better end of the deal, but this wasn’t one of her father’s bargaining sessions. She looked the manor house over, at the windows reflecting the woods, and at the chimneys puffing smoke. “Why,” she asked, “do you call this place Seven Chimneys?”
“You mean when there are more than seven chimneys?” Miss Bunch asked. Karigan nodded. “Why, seven is a magical number. Nine is not, and Father wouldn’t use a name for his home that wasn’t magical.”
Karigan chuckled and mounted The Horse. “I don’t even know how to get to Sacor City from here.”
“East by north, child,” Miss Bayberry said. “East by north will get you there.”
When it was apparent no further information was forthcoming, Karigan reluctantly turned The Horse down the road. Glancing once over her shoulder, she saw the two sisters standing side by side as they watched her leave. She waved, and they waved back. She wished, with a sigh, she could linger.
All too soon, Seven Chimneys and the sisters disappeared behind a bend in the road, and shortly after, the road turned into a deer trail. She reined The Horse around, but found that the road was really gone, as if it had never existed. She circled around in the underbrush, but could find no evidence of it.
“A road can’t just vanish,” she muttered. But then again, neither could a girl and a horse.
MIRWELL
Tomastine II, Governor of Mirwell Province, sank wearily into his worn, hide-upholstered armchair, facing a stone hearth large enough to walk into. The fire would do his bones good. It would relieve his joints of aches accumulated over an active lifetime of hunting and warring.
Blast the cold damp, he thought.
The Great Arms of Mirwell, two war hammers crossed over a mountain crazed with cracks and fissures, on a field of scarlet, drew one’s eye above the massive mantel. The creation of the Arms, according to the family chronicles, coincided with the formation of the Sacor Clans before the Long War. Clan Mirwell’s ancient roots were imbued with crushing opponents, of possessing the strength to strike down the very mountains. The Mirwells had never governed their province with a bejeweled scepter of gold, but with an iron hammer of war.
Even so, over the generations, the province had grown quiet, almost sleepy. Two hundred years ago, however, it had not been that way. The clans had torn at each other’s throats for land and the glory of the family. Clan Mirwell had absorbed more land into its borders than it had lost, and acquired a reputation for savage brutality. Ah, the glory, when you knew what a man thought and he expressed it with his blade, instead of today’s spineless politicking of court eunuchs who stabbed you from behind with words.
“Before you go, child,” Miss Bayberry said from the front step, “we’ve a few things for you.”
Karigan glanced at the bulging saddlebags and felt the extra weight in her pack. “You’ve already given me so much—all the food and a change of clothes. . . .”
“Nonsense, child. Those are just provisions. You have a little growing to do, and Bunch and I are concerned about your proper nourishment. We would like to give you some gifts. Very simple gifts.” She held forth a tiny sprig with dark green leaves. “My namesake, bayberry. When you find resolve failing you, when hope is lost, or you miss the deep scents of wild places, take a leaf and rub it between your fingers. The scent will refresh you, and perhaps you will think of me.”
Karigan smiled as she took the bayberry. The freshly cut branch was fragrant.
Miss Bunchberry had a shy smile on her face. She held in her palm a flower with four white petals. “Bunchberry is my namesake. There is a small patch in the woods behind the house just pushing up out of the ground with the spring. If you are in need of a friend, pluck a petal from the flower and let it drift in the wind. Perhaps you will also think of me. It won’t wither soon, child, as a good friendship should not.”
“One more thing, child,” Miss Bayberry said. She pressed something cool and smooth into Karigan’s hand.Thin slivers of light beamed through her fingers, even in the bright sunshine.
“The moonstone!” Karigan cried in awe. “I can’t take this. It was your father’s.”
“Don’t be silly,” Miss Bayberry said. “It has taken to you. I daresay it never lights up for Bunch or me. And as for it being Father’s . . . well, I’m sure he would have wanted you to keep it.”
Miss Bunchberry nodded in agreement. “Take it. It will light your way and keep you warm. It was the moonstones, they say, that held back the dark forces during the Long War. It should serve you well. May the moon shine brightly on your path.”
“Thank you . . . thank you.” Karigan’s eyes grew moist. “Is there anything I can do for you? Take word of you to kin in Sacor City?”
“My, but she’s taken to the part of being a messenger, hasn’t she, Bay?”
“Definitely, but I’m afraid that we have no kin in Sacor City. Just a cousin down south and you wouldn’t want to meet her.”
“Miss Poppy is very cranky,” Miss Bunchberry said.
“And that doesn’t even begin to describe her. Child, you need do nothing for us, for you’ve done so much by giving us a little company, and as I mentioned before, Green Riders assisted our father in his search for knowledge. We are simply returning the favor. If you are back this way, do visit. Just watch out for brigands and thieves on the road.”
Karigan didn’t think the sisters had gotten the better end of the deal, but this wasn’t one of her father’s bargaining sessions. She looked the manor house over, at the windows reflecting the woods, and at the chimneys puffing smoke. “Why,” she asked, “do you call this place Seven Chimneys?”
“You mean when there are more than seven chimneys?” Miss Bunch asked. Karigan nodded. “Why, seven is a magical number. Nine is not, and Father wouldn’t use a name for his home that wasn’t magical.”
Karigan chuckled and mounted The Horse. “I don’t even know how to get to Sacor City from here.”
“East by north, child,” Miss Bayberry said. “East by north will get you there.”
When it was apparent no further information was forthcoming, Karigan reluctantly turned The Horse down the road. Glancing once over her shoulder, she saw the two sisters standing side by side as they watched her leave. She waved, and they waved back. She wished, with a sigh, she could linger.
All too soon, Seven Chimneys and the sisters disappeared behind a bend in the road, and shortly after, the road turned into a deer trail. She reined The Horse around, but found that the road was really gone, as if it had never existed. She circled around in the underbrush, but could find no evidence of it.
“A road can’t just vanish,” she muttered. But then again, neither could a girl and a horse.
MIRWELL
Tomastine II, Governor of Mirwell Province, sank wearily into his worn, hide-upholstered armchair, facing a stone hearth large enough to walk into. The fire would do his bones good. It would relieve his joints of aches accumulated over an active lifetime of hunting and warring.
Blast the cold damp, he thought.
The Great Arms of Mirwell, two war hammers crossed over a mountain crazed with cracks and fissures, on a field of scarlet, drew one’s eye above the massive mantel. The creation of the Arms, according to the family chronicles, coincided with the formation of the Sacor Clans before the Long War. Clan Mirwell’s ancient roots were imbued with crushing opponents, of possessing the strength to strike down the very mountains. The Mirwells had never governed their province with a bejeweled scepter of gold, but with an iron hammer of war.
Even so, over the generations, the province had grown quiet, almost sleepy. Two hundred years ago, however, it had not been that way. The clans had torn at each other’s throats for land and the glory of the family. Clan Mirwell had absorbed more land into its borders than it had lost, and acquired a reputation for savage brutality. Ah, the glory, when you knew what a man thought and he expressed it with his blade, instead of today’s spineless politicking of court eunuchs who stabbed you from behind with words.
