As she folded and returned the bedclothes to the cedar closet, she espied a tongue of leather sticking out between some blankets. It was a swordbelt and scabbard. A swordbelt would make it more difficult to separate her from the saber. It was a loose fit even when buckled on the last hole, but it would do. She tucked the excess leather beneath the belt, and sheathed the saber into the plain black scabbard.
In an effort not to look so much like a Green Rider in a town that would not welcome one, she dressed in her own blue trousers, and rolled up the sleeves of her new linen shirt to hide the insignia. It was warm enough anyway. She tied the greatcoat around the bedroll, but the brooch remained pinned to her shirt. It wasn’t supposed to identify one as a Green Rider anyway, except to another Green Rider. It stood to reason that the tack might give her away, but she hoped nobody would look close enough to notice.
She took one last glance around the cabin and sighed. The stories it could tell . . . I suppose I heard most of them last night from Abram.
Gathering up the tack and packs, Karigan stepped outside into sunshine. Reluctantly she latched the door behind her and walked to the paddock, the saber slapping awkwardly against her thigh.
The path was still moist from the previous day’s rain, and the air was heavy with the smells of evergreen and bayberry drying in the sun. Bayberry? She stopped in her tracks. There hadn’t been a bayberry bush next to the path yesterday, had there? But there it was, next to a patch of bunchberry flowers.
“I don’t believe it.”
Each bunchberry flower was perfect except for one missing a petal. She plucked it and twirled it in front of her eyes. Could it be? She slipped it into her pocket and snapped off a bayberry branch just in case.
Abram awaited her in the paddock, patting The Horse on his neck. “Good morning,” he said. “Your guide awaits you.”
Karigan returned his greeting with a grin. She set the saddle on the paddock fence and slipped the bridle over The Horse’s head. “I appreciate this. The Mirwellians won’t find me in the forest.”
Abram returned her smile, then helped her place the saddle on The Horse’s back. “That is correct.”
Abram insisted that she ride The Horse though he would be on foot—he claimed his long legs could keep up with any steed. Karigan pulled the girth tight, hoisted up her sagging swordbelt, and mounted. Abram led them out of the paddock, The Horse’s hooves sinking into the mud.
Karigan ducked beneath tree limbs laden with water from the previous day’s rain, but still managed to get drenched. Biters clouded in the shade, their numbers beginning to wane as the season progressed.
Sun filtered through the trees and turned droplets clinging to spiderwebs into lacy jewels. Fiddleheads unfurled into broad cinnamon ferns, and the leaves of aspen, birch, and maple trees fully budded, blotting out the sky more than ever.
Abram guided her along no visible trail. He skirted granite ledges and winter blow-downs, stepped across gurgling streams that would dry out by summer’s end, and wove his way through patches of brush. Whatever path he followed, it was easy to travel. He hummed the entire way, his beard bristling as if he were smiling. Karigan wondered at his content and was surprised he did not smoke. When she remarked upon this, he replied, “I need no smoke here. Into the cities and villages, by the side of a fire, that is where I need it.”
They spoke little as they traveled, though they stopped periodically so Abram could show Karigan delicate lady’s slippers, bluets, and trillium, his huge hands dwarfing the blossoms. The sun changed the shapes of shadows in the woods and lifted a moist vapor from the damp ground. Pine needles scattered on the forest floor dried in the sun, and left a strong tang of balsam in the air. Somewhere a woodpecker could be heard tapping on a tree.
Abram stopped and looked up. Karigan followed his gaze and beheld the tallest white pine she had ever seen. Its girth was so wide that even Abram couldn’t wrap his arms all the way around it.
“This tree is hundreds of years old,” he said. “I never fail to be awed by it. See up the trunk, the scar that looks like the shape of a gull in flight?”
She squinted, barely able to discern crude wings and a body cut into the bark. The scar was dark, an old carving. “Who would bother to do such a thing?” She was familiar with the carvings made by lovers, but who would carve a gull into the trunk of a tree in the middle of the wilderness?
“One who was a forester long before me.”
“But why do it in the first place?” Carving initials into a tree was a silly way to express love. Love was a bit silly, anyway. But it was also cruel if the love ended.
Abram slapped the tree trunk with his palm as if meeting an old friend. “This was a king’s tree, young one. Marked to one day be the mast of some great sailing vessel. The mark is that of Clan Sealender.”
“Sealender?” Karigan furrowed her brow. It was a new clan name to her.
“The bloodline that ruled Sacoridia before Hillander. When Sealender died out, Hillander battled for and won the right of succession. Both are descended from the original Sacor Clans.”
“Oh.” Once again, Karigan had been stumped by what was probably common knowledge. Next time, if there was a next time, she wouldn’t be so neglectful of her history lessons.
“I would not cut this tree down if the king himself commanded me to do so.” Abram looked up the tree trunk again, the crinkles beneath his eyes deepening with a smile.
They left the pine behind, circling around tiny spruces waiting in the shade for their chance to grow tall. The afternoon sun waned, forest shadows shifted as they walked. Abram stopped, his head stooped, listening. Blows could be heard, not the crisp rat-a-tat of a woodpecker, rather the chopping of an ax against wood.