She headed for the horses and was struck by how quiet the night was. A few small campfires and lanterns flickered like fairy lights here and there throughout the woods, and the hushed voices of those on duty drifted to her. She inhaled a mixture of woodsmoke, manure, and pine, and she did not find it unpleasant. As she walked, the peacefulness of the night lifted the darkness of the dream from her shoulders.
She greeted a sleepy guard on his rounds near the picket line and found Condor staked between Crane and a snoring mule. Condor welcomed her with a nicker, his eyes aglitter with starshine. She pressed her cheek against his warm neck and closed her eyes, receiving from him the solace only he could provide. It worked even better than tea or a hot bath ever could.
“Steadfast friend,” she murmured to him. Through everything, from the torment of the call and sundering from her family, to her assimilation into Green Rider life, he had been there for her, an encouraging presence that provided comfort and unconditional love.
She did not know what she would do without him and was aware that other Riders shared similar bonds with their horses. It came of a close working partnership, of course, and the fact that horse and Rider must rely on one another not just to get the job done, but for companionship and even survival. And it went deeper.
Somehow, and Karigan was still unclear about this, messenger horses were able to pick out or sense the Rider with whom they’d be most compatible. Condor had never had a chance to “pick” her because of the dire circumstances that originally threw them together, but they certainly developed a deep fondness for one another that surpassed an ordinary relationship between horse and rider. It went a long way on a lonely road.
He was an unbeautiful horse, her Condor, gawky in proportion, with his chestnut hide scored by old scars, but she didn’t care. She would not trade him for the most beautiful horse in the world, and she had had access to some truly fine steeds in her father’s stable, but they weren’t Condor. There was no other horse like him.
Even now he provided her comfort from bad dreams, and gave her a light chuff in her face with breath sweetened by grain. She smiled and pulled on his ear and he lipped at her sleeve, begging for a treat.
“Sorry, I don’t have anything for you tonight.”
They had played this game often since they had been with the delegation. She had needed to come to him for his familiar comfort. This whole delegation business had taken some getting used to. Compared to her usual duty, it was like a traveling circus. So many people moving at such a slow pace. It was the same routine every day—riding from sunup to sundown, stopping to pitch camp for the night, breaking down camp in the dusky hours of morning, only to begin the cycle anew. The repetitive nature of it chafed at her.
On an ordinary message errand, she had the freedom to set her own pace and stop where and when she desired. Sometimes this meant sleeping in the open, and sometimes it meant the camaraderie of an inn. With the delegation, she had no choice over pacing or people.
While she missed the independence, she did enjoy getting to know the other Riders better. It was a rare occasion when Riders rode in one another’s company because, by necessity, they must work alone to cover the far reaches of the countryside, bearing King Zachary’s messages. But then, this was an unusual mission.
A mission for which Karigan had been hand-picked.
There were several other Riders better suited for a diplomatic mission, Captain Mapstone had informed her, than Karigan who was not—and here she smiled—the most “diplomatic” among them. But it was she who had the most experience with Eletians.
“The most experience” did not amount to much, Karigan thought. She combed her fingers through Condor’s mane, flipping it to the right side.
A couple years ago, an Eletian named Somial had saved her life, mending her until the poison that raged in her blood had dissipated. Her memories of that time were dim, but she seemed to recall dancers amid moonbeams in an emerald clearing, and Somial’s gentle laughter and ageless eyes.
Were most Eletians like Somial? Magical and healing? Or were they more like Shawdell, who had wished to crush the D’Yer Wall so he might claim whatever residue of dark and powerful magic remained beyond the wall in Blackveil Forest? It had not mattered to him how many lives he destroyed in the process, and in fact the more lives he took with his soul-stealing arrows, the stronger he became.
Karigan grunted as Condor’s great weight settled against her. He had decided to use her as his leaning post. She heaved him off. “Hold your own self up, you great oaf.” He yawned comically and shook his mane out of sorts again.
As Karigan stroked Condor’s neck, she found herself unsettled by thoughts of Shawdell. He had come close to bringing about her undoing, and King Zachary’s, too. The memory of Shawdell sighting the king down the shaft of a black arrow still made her shudder. It had been a close thing. Fortunately, Shawdell and his ambitions had been thwarted, but what was to say there weren’t more Eletians like him? Even just one such as he could present untold danger.
And so here was the delegation, tramping through the northernmost wilds of the Green Cloak Forest. King Zachary needed to learn the Eletians’ mindset regarding Sacoridia. He hoped they still honored an alliance made with the Sacor Clans a thousand years ago, but who knew with that strange folk?
Karigan suspected the Eletians wouldn’t be particularly concerned with Sacoridia unless it suited their own needs. And did something now concern Eletia? It was like the sleeping legend had awakened. People had not seen Eletians simply slipping through a forest glade in the light of a silver moon, but on busy roads in full daylight. Passersby gawked at them, but no Eletian deigned to speak with any Sacoridian, and none sought out King Zachary.