Green Rider
Page 58
On impulse, she inspected the closet again, the scent of cedar hanging heavy and cloying in the little cabin. Within, she found more linen shirts, but only one fit reasonably well. Each shirt bore a winged horse embroidered in gold on the sleeve. Karigan glanced at her own sleeve, and sure enough, found a winged horse.
Soft hide trousers dyed in green, fur-lined greatcoats and cloaks, tall black boots, and mittens and gloves filled the closet, but only one pair of trousers fit her. She pulled out a pair of leather gloves with flaring cuffs over her hands, and liked the effect. The cuffs would hide the burns on her wrists.
“Well,” she said, “everyone thinks I’m a Green Rider, so I may as well dress like one.”
Everything in the closet was new and unused, and a notice tacked to the closet door requested that all items removed be reported to the quartermaster for restocking purposes. It was one more thing she would have to take care of when she reached Sacor City. If she made it.
When the water boiled, Karigan brewed some tea and set about washing herself with a cloth and honey soap. Gritting her teeth, she pried the dirt-caked dressings from her wrists. They stuck stubbornly to her skin, and the scabs broke as she pulled. Her wrists were chafed, tender, sore, and oozing, but not festering. The care of the Eletians had surpassed anything the menders in Selium could have done. She cleaned the burns, applied ointment, and dressed them with fresh bandage strips she had found in the cabinet.
A look in a dusty mirror revealed yellowing bruises on her face. She averted her gaze, Garroty’s assault all too fresh in her mind.
Her stomach rumbled, and only now did she think about food. Though Torne, Jendara, and Garroty had dented her food stores, there was still some hard bread, cheese and dried meat left in the saddlebags. Further digging revealed two wrinkly apples. Karigan sat down for a feast by the crackling fire, as the warmth of the tea spread throughout her body.
It was late afternoon by the time Karigan realized she had dozed off. She stretched muscles cramped by the wooden chair, and threw a new log on the fading embers of the fire. Then she looked over the cabin’s supply of books which included the fictional story The Journeys of Gilan Wylloland. Karigan had read and reread it long ago, though fiction books were hard to come by. Her mother had spotted it at a fair and added it to the tiny G’ladheon library.
As a child, Karigan had pretended she was Gilan’s side-kick, Blaine, traveling lands that existed only in the author’s imagination. She had trooped around her father’s estate brandishing a stick as her sword, and tormented the house cat as if he were the murderous dragon Viliflavo. The offended tom was named Dragon as a result.
Now Karigan was experiencing her own adventure, but it wasn’t anything like The Journeys of Gilan Wylloland. The danger was far too real and unpleasant. Gilan and Blaine had ridden through adventure after adventure nearly unscathed. Karigan could not say the same.
Another book, titled The Natural History of the Northern Wilderness, had also been on the shelf of Master Ione’s classroom. What possible use Green Riders would have for it, she couldn’t imagine. It did not occur to her that at least one among them was interested in the wildflowers, birds, or mammals of the region. Surely Green Riders were far too busy to worry about nature.
The third and last book was bound in plain leather. It was some sort of journal. Inside, a variety of handwriting styles were scrawled across the pages, some legible, some not. She sat by the fire, absorbed by the entries.
Arrived at North waystation by dusk, wrote Pary Mantobe. Snowshoes a must—blizzard dropping inches more of snow as I write. Am not sure I will even be able to reach the horse.
Karigan gazed sideways at the snowshoes on the mantel. The entry was over ten years old.
Some nameless Rider wrote in another entry: Saw a pileated woodpecker by the stream. Bear tracks in the mud of the spring. Several songbirds I couldn’t identify greeted me this morning. Karigan held the book to her chest. Bears! She hadn’t even thought about them.After all her adventures thus far, they didn’t seem like much of a threat by comparison.
An entry by T. Bankside read: . . . chased by brigands all the way from North—Lt. Mapstone’s knife wound festering badly. She’s burning with fever—don’t know if she’ll live the night. Karigan flipped the page, but the chronicler failed to mention whether or not the lieutenant had survived.
She read until dusk. Many of the entries were no more than accounts of the weather and local fauna. Some entries were set in poetry, while others were accompanied by illustrations. By the time she finished the book, she was under the impression that Green Riders were a colorful group.
Karigan left the warmth of the cabin to check on The Horse. He trotted up to the gate of the enclosure and whickered in greeting. Despite the damp weather, he seemed in good spirits.
“You deserve a break, don’t you,” she said. After she fed and watered him, she turned to walk back to the cabin, and walked right into a big man. She screamed and fell back, wishing herself invisible.
The man was massive, even taller than her father, with enough heft to make him appear as broad as he was tall. His face was a tangle of curly gray whiskers that hung from his face like lichen draped over spruce branches. Black eyes pierced beneath bushy brows. He was dressed in drab brown and gray, and a huge ax hung from his belt. He was a troll come to life.
He rotated slowly around, as if trying to see where she went. “Green Rider?” The voice was surprisingly gentle. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Please come back. I smelled the wood smoke and wanted to make sure all was well.”
Soft hide trousers dyed in green, fur-lined greatcoats and cloaks, tall black boots, and mittens and gloves filled the closet, but only one pair of trousers fit her. She pulled out a pair of leather gloves with flaring cuffs over her hands, and liked the effect. The cuffs would hide the burns on her wrists.
“Well,” she said, “everyone thinks I’m a Green Rider, so I may as well dress like one.”
Everything in the closet was new and unused, and a notice tacked to the closet door requested that all items removed be reported to the quartermaster for restocking purposes. It was one more thing she would have to take care of when she reached Sacor City. If she made it.
When the water boiled, Karigan brewed some tea and set about washing herself with a cloth and honey soap. Gritting her teeth, she pried the dirt-caked dressings from her wrists. They stuck stubbornly to her skin, and the scabs broke as she pulled. Her wrists were chafed, tender, sore, and oozing, but not festering. The care of the Eletians had surpassed anything the menders in Selium could have done. She cleaned the burns, applied ointment, and dressed them with fresh bandage strips she had found in the cabinet.
A look in a dusty mirror revealed yellowing bruises on her face. She averted her gaze, Garroty’s assault all too fresh in her mind.
Her stomach rumbled, and only now did she think about food. Though Torne, Jendara, and Garroty had dented her food stores, there was still some hard bread, cheese and dried meat left in the saddlebags. Further digging revealed two wrinkly apples. Karigan sat down for a feast by the crackling fire, as the warmth of the tea spread throughout her body.
It was late afternoon by the time Karigan realized she had dozed off. She stretched muscles cramped by the wooden chair, and threw a new log on the fading embers of the fire. Then she looked over the cabin’s supply of books which included the fictional story The Journeys of Gilan Wylloland. Karigan had read and reread it long ago, though fiction books were hard to come by. Her mother had spotted it at a fair and added it to the tiny G’ladheon library.
As a child, Karigan had pretended she was Gilan’s side-kick, Blaine, traveling lands that existed only in the author’s imagination. She had trooped around her father’s estate brandishing a stick as her sword, and tormented the house cat as if he were the murderous dragon Viliflavo. The offended tom was named Dragon as a result.
Now Karigan was experiencing her own adventure, but it wasn’t anything like The Journeys of Gilan Wylloland. The danger was far too real and unpleasant. Gilan and Blaine had ridden through adventure after adventure nearly unscathed. Karigan could not say the same.
Another book, titled The Natural History of the Northern Wilderness, had also been on the shelf of Master Ione’s classroom. What possible use Green Riders would have for it, she couldn’t imagine. It did not occur to her that at least one among them was interested in the wildflowers, birds, or mammals of the region. Surely Green Riders were far too busy to worry about nature.
The third and last book was bound in plain leather. It was some sort of journal. Inside, a variety of handwriting styles were scrawled across the pages, some legible, some not. She sat by the fire, absorbed by the entries.
Arrived at North waystation by dusk, wrote Pary Mantobe. Snowshoes a must—blizzard dropping inches more of snow as I write. Am not sure I will even be able to reach the horse.
Karigan gazed sideways at the snowshoes on the mantel. The entry was over ten years old.
Some nameless Rider wrote in another entry: Saw a pileated woodpecker by the stream. Bear tracks in the mud of the spring. Several songbirds I couldn’t identify greeted me this morning. Karigan held the book to her chest. Bears! She hadn’t even thought about them.After all her adventures thus far, they didn’t seem like much of a threat by comparison.
An entry by T. Bankside read: . . . chased by brigands all the way from North—Lt. Mapstone’s knife wound festering badly. She’s burning with fever—don’t know if she’ll live the night. Karigan flipped the page, but the chronicler failed to mention whether or not the lieutenant had survived.
She read until dusk. Many of the entries were no more than accounts of the weather and local fauna. Some entries were set in poetry, while others were accompanied by illustrations. By the time she finished the book, she was under the impression that Green Riders were a colorful group.
Karigan left the warmth of the cabin to check on The Horse. He trotted up to the gate of the enclosure and whickered in greeting. Despite the damp weather, he seemed in good spirits.
“You deserve a break, don’t you,” she said. After she fed and watered him, she turned to walk back to the cabin, and walked right into a big man. She screamed and fell back, wishing herself invisible.
The man was massive, even taller than her father, with enough heft to make him appear as broad as he was tall. His face was a tangle of curly gray whiskers that hung from his face like lichen draped over spruce branches. Black eyes pierced beneath bushy brows. He was dressed in drab brown and gray, and a huge ax hung from his belt. He was a troll come to life.
He rotated slowly around, as if trying to see where she went. “Green Rider?” The voice was surprisingly gentle. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Please come back. I smelled the wood smoke and wanted to make sure all was well.”
