14 THE GREEN KNIGHT

14

THE GREEN KNIGHT

Ridha

Three days she cursed Sirandel, snarling obscenities with every galloping step of her mother’s horse. In Paramount, in Low Vederan, the bastard tongue born of centuries on the Ward, and in Pure Vederan, the voice of Glorian, the voice of a realm she had never known. Ridha, princess of Iona, heir to the Monarch, only child of Isibel Beldane and Cadrigan of the Dawn, rode with a fury. The sand mare kept on, bred to endure, but even she began to tire. Ridha did not.

Cowards all, the foxes and the stags,she thought, despairing of her home and the enclave now miles behind her. She cursed the Sirandels’ palace of trees and rivers, their forest meadow halls and root vaults. Their city of immortal splendor, hidden deep in the Castlewood, grown as much as it was built. As the daughter of Iona, the Monarch’s heir, they feasted and celebrated, her presence cause for great interest. But it did not last. Her tidings were dark, her requests unthinkable. Ride to war, after centuries of peace? Fight the man who could bring them home, even if it meant losing the Ward to What Waits and the jaws of Asunder? Spill Sirandel blood where Iona would not, for a cause so deadly?

Your mother is wise, the Monarch of Sirandel had said, his long face grim. His hair was more gray than red, silvered by time. We will follow her judgment. Glorian calls.

Ridha wanted to spit in his face. Instead she nodded, drank the spirits offered, ate the food given, and stole away in the night.

Even the wolves knew to avoid her, slinking away from the deer path as she urged the mare through the forest. She no longer felt the armor slung across her body, gleaming green, worked with antlers and the stag she now lamented. Is it raining? she thought after a long moment, breathing in the damp air of the Castlewood. Indeed, water streamed down her face, working through her dark hair with cold, wet fingers. How long have I been soaked to the skin?

It was not the Vederan way to feel such things, but a chill stole into her all the same. And not because of the rain.

Again she cursed in rage. At herself, mostly.

I sent Domacridhan into the world alone, seeking assassins and Cor heirs, seeking a blade, seeking revenge if not death.She saw her cousin in her head, burning as hot as an iron in the forge. All anger, all grief. He was no philosopher or diplomat, or even clear-headed. And now, with the fall of the realm on the horizon? She tightened her grip on the mare’s reins, her knuckles white beneath her gauntlets. Have I sent him to his doom?

Worse even was the more selfish question:

Have I already failed?

As the trees blurred past, green-leaved and black-trunked in the downpour, a white figure rose. It was fixed but following, unmoving but always keeping pace. The image stung, near blinding, and Ridha shut her eyes, letting the mare choose her path. The figure remained. It was no stranger. Ridha would have known her mother’s face anywhere, even in a sending, where all was mist, unreal and real, rippled and distant.

“Come home,” Isibel said. “The Sirandels have refused. So will the rest.” Most of her was as ashes, the edges of her pale skin and silver-gold hair flaking. The sending was not strong, but Ridha was her own blood. It would not take much will to connect them. “Come home.”

The princess galloped on. I will not. She set her teeth and her resolve. Sirandel is only one enclave, and they are not the only immortal warriors upon the Ward. I need only choose, and choose well. If I do not . . .

Another smiling refusal could be the difference between life and death, for all she loved and knew. Though he had no skill in magic, she saw Domacridhan again, his face torn and bleeding, his eyes filled with the horrors he had witnessed in the foothills.

The Spindle temple was some days northwest, not far by her measure. Cortael’s brother could still be there, flanked by his wizard and his army, vomiting out of the torn Spindle. How many would there be now? Domacridhan suspected that more than a hundred came through in the first minutes, enough to overwhelm them. There could be thousands by now. Many thousands.

The cold in her deepened, until she felt made of ice instead of bones.

The edge of the Castlewood came sooner than she’d expected. But then, it had been decades since she passed this way, and mortals were apt to tear down what they could not tame. The forest dropped away around her, leaving only a barren belt of stumps and root holes. She could hear mills a half league off, churning on the banks of the Great Lion, cutting lumber to be sent downriver to Badentern and eventually the trade port of Ascal. Gallish oak and steelpine were famed across the Ward, fetching high prices in all seasons. Used in everything from water barrels to ship masts to shields. Steelpine was fire-resistant—Spindletouched, some said. Once, this forest had been as riddled with Spindles as with holes in a burrow. They’d left only hollows and clearings, hot springs that varied between water and gnawing acid, flowers that could heal or poison. Mortals with strange eyes and a tremor of magic, running thin in the later centuries. Such was the way of the Spindles, leaving blessings and curses in their wake, memories of the doorways that were and would never be again.

The sand mare was named Nirez, the Ibalet word for a long winter wind that cooled the unforgiving desert. It blew for days on end, signaling the turn of the season and the dawn of the new year in the south. That wind flagged now, and Nirez’s fluid gait lost its rhythm. Only a half step off, but Ridha felt the shift.

She was not her cousin. She would not ride the horse to death. Largely because she would never procure another sand mare in these parts, and Gallish ponies were dull, dumb, and fat. She passed many as the field of stumps gave over to farmland and pasture, gold and green as the lion flag. Hedges cut the landscape, lining the gentle hills to separate wheat from barley. It was a blue, clear day, the sun warmer than it was in the thicker forest. Her armor shone like a mirror, and many farmers stopped their work to watch her ride past. Though Ridha was prepared for bandits or highwaymen, her sword ready at her side, there were none to be found. The belly of Galland was a sleepy land, well patrolled and protected by the vast kingdom.

The first village was small but had an inn and a passable stable. It was only noontime, so the yard was near empty when she trotted through, Nirez blowing hard, her black flank foaming with sweat. The stable hands, a boy and girl barely older than ten, were slow to act. They clopped heavily into the yard, their faces freckled and red with heat.

The boy sneered at her, a woman in armor, but the girl gaped, her pale eyes going round.

“It’s three pennies to stall your horse,” the boy spat, wiping at his nose. “Another one for hay and water, another for grooming.”

“My lady—sir,” the girl added, jumping into a bow that was more a squat. Ridha guessed she had never bowed in her life.

In reply, she tossed a round silver coin in their direction. The girl snatched and caught it first, turning it over in her grubby hands. She wondered at the image of the stag.

“That’s not a penny!” the boy shouted, but Ridha was already walking toward the adjoining inn, her pack and saddlebags slung over one arm. She’d paid more than three times what they’d asked, in coin not diluted by a treasury in a city they would never see.

Though a princess of an immortal enclave, Ridha was no stranger to inns. Unlike most of her kin, she’d seen many in her four centuries upon the Ward, across many corners of the northern continent. Tavernas in Tyriot, the brewhouses of Ascal, Jydi ale lodges, the wine-soaked sedens of Siscaria, Treckish gorzka bars with clear liquor that would blind you if given the chance. She squinted at the faded sign hung over the inn door, unmoving in the still air. The name was worn away.

The interior was dark, the windows narrow and small, a fire barely embers in the hearth. Her immortal eyes swept over the inn quickly, needing no time to adjust. Most of the ground floor was the common room, set with a few tables and a long bar against the far wall. There were stairs to her left, marching up to the few cramped bedrooms, and a door to her right. Someone was snoring behind it—the innkeeper, perhaps. A single maid stood at the bar, most likely his wife. Ridha suspected the boy and girl were her children. They had the same freckled face, sandy hair, and curious disposition.

Two patrons occupied the far corner, tucked between the hearth and the wall, well settled with pewter tankards before them. They had knives at their belts and steel-toed boots, but they were ruddy, beaded with drink sweat, missing hair and teeth. Of little threat.

“What can I do for you . . . miss?” the barmaid said. Her eyes roved over Ridha’s face and armor. “I’ve got a room to let, six pennies for the night, seven with board. Ale’s more.”

This time Ridha was careful to count out the pennies. Flashing silver before children was one thing, but the others were a risk. They might try to rob her, and then she’d have to waste time and energy roughing up farmers. She slid seven pennies across the bar top.

“I’ve paid the stable hands to mind my horse,” she added, nodding toward the door.

The barmaid dipped her head. “I’ll make sure they do the job. Little imps seem to wander more and more these days. Room’s at the top of the stairs, first on the right,” she added, gesturing. “I can draw you a bath for a few pennies more.”

Though the road had been long, Ridha shook her head. She’d bathed last in Sirandel, in a pond lined with silver, attended by handmaidens with bowls of scented oil and lavender soap. She had no intention of souring the memory with a cramped tub bucket before a weak fire.

The room was narrow, with a sloped ceiling, single window, and a short, hay-stuffed bed. The blanket was threadbare, mouse-eaten at the edges. Ridha heard rodents in the walls, skittering back and forth from the garden to the roof. She didn’t plan to sleep that evening. It was Nirez who needed rest, not her. Instead she shucked off her armor and stored it in a chest with her sword and saddlebags. She kept her dagger, tucked beneath her long, charcoal-gray tunic, along with a boot knife, as well as her jewelry: a pendant and the hammered silver ring of Iona on her off-hand thumb.

For a long moment, she considered sitting on the bed and staring at the wall until dawn. It would certainly be just as productive as returning downstairs. But her body drifted, her feet stepping without sound, until she found herself in the common room again. She claimed a table by the hearth, her back against the cool wall, one hand gesturing for a drink.

Bitter ale, thin soup, bread surprisingly good,she thought, taking stock of her meal. She ate and drew with her finger on the tabletop, tracing the lines of a map only she could see. Where can I go next? she asked herself again, naming the enclaves. They were far-flung, a long journey in every direction, every choice a risk. Who might help, and who might turn me away?

In the corner, the men gurgled back and forth, their Gallish accents thick and harsh. Ridha tried not to listen, but as an immortal Vederan, she had no trouble hearing their heartbeats, let alone their conversation.

“Married, or getting married soon,” one of the mortal men grumbled quietly. He sucked down the last of his ale, tipping the tankard. Then he belched and smacked his lips. Ridha cut a glare at him, though he didn’t notice. “Can’t remember which.”

His companion was lean, with strong forearms bared to the elbow. A woodcutter. He shook his head. “Come on, Rye, I’m sure we’d know if the Queen was married already. There’d be a ’nouncement. A rider.” The woodcutter flapped a hand at the doorway. “I dunno, a lion prancing down the lane to roar the good news.”

Rye laughed harshly. “You think the Queen cares to tell us her doings, Pole?”

“We’re her subjects—’course she does,” Pole said indignantly, puffing out his chest. Ridha felt the corner of her mouth lift. A mortal monarch barely has time to learn herself. She won’t be learning about you anytime soon, Master Pole.

Rye shared the same opinion. He chuckled again, slapping a hand on his table. “She doesn’t even know the name of our village, let alone the people in it.”

“I s’pose,” Pole muttered begrudgingly, his face flushed. “So to who?”

“Who what?” the other replied. He grabbed for a hunk of bread, dipping it in his soup. He ate like a bear, messy and without regard. Brown water dripped from his graying beard.

Pole sighed. “Who’s she marrying?”

“D’ya think I’d know?” Rye said, shrugging. “Or you’d know the name if I said it?”

“I s’pose not,” Pole said, embarrassed again. He scratched beneath his felt cap, at a scalp near to balding. “She might,” he added suddenly, jerking his chin.

Ridha slowly pushed the ale away, freeing her hands.

Rye did not notice, too occupied with his soup. “Who might?”

“Her, the fancy one.” Pole dropped his voice to a whisper. She heard him clearly, as if he were shouting across the common room. He even pointed with a knobbled finger. “Came tromping in here like a knight in six feet of armor with a cloak to match.”

It took longer than it should have for Rye to follow. But finally he noticed Ridha at her table, her chair braced against the wall, her eyes fixed on her plate. “Oh right,” he said, clear he’d forgotten her completely. “Maybe she will.”

And then Pole really was shouting across the room, picking a scab on his neck as he did so. “Hey, do you know who the Queen’s marrying?” he said, his voice shrill and hard.

Ridha bit back the urge to cover her ears, remove herself, or remove him. I should have just stayed upstairs and stared at the wall.

“I beg your pardon?” she said instead, her voice soft from days of disuse.

The men exchanged a very patronizing roll of their eyes. “The Quee-een,” Pole said, drawing out the word. As if I’m completely stupid, even though I’m the one they’re asking for information. “Who’s she marrying?”

“Which queen?” Ridha replied, in an equally slow voice. There was a host of queens, mortal and immortal, reigning and consort, this side of the mountains and the Long Sea. Silently, she willed Nirez to recover quickly, so she might be free of this inn.

Rye blinked his mud-brown eyes. His mouth went a little slack and he looked to Pole in confusion. “There’s more than one queen?” he hissed under his breath.

Baleir save me.

Pole waved him off. “The Queen of Galland,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Queen Erida.”

“I can’t say I know much of her.” It was the truth. Ridha had not traveled far from Iona in twenty years, never riding west of the Monadhrion. The mortal lands changed so quickly, even in two decades. It was not worth recalling what she remembered of them.

The two men scoffed in unison. Now Pole really did think her stupid, an overly tall woman playing at knighthood in borrowed armor. “She’s been queen of this here kingdom for four years yet—you certainly should,” he sputtered.

A heartbeat in Elder time,Ridha thought. “I am sorry, but no,” she answered, dropping her eyes. “No idea who she might be marrying.” And no interest either.

The innkeeper’s wife bustled out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on her apron. She put herself between Ridha and the men, smiling at them as she cleared their table. It was no small reprieve when she took up the conversation.

“Must be a great prince. Or another king,” the woman said, balancing plates. “That’s how it works, don’t it? That lot always keep to each other. Keep things in the family, so to speak.”

While the men blustered between themselves over subjects they had no knowledge of, Ridha sat back in her chair. She felt oddly warm in her skin, though the fire was barely lit, and the room was cool and dim. All this talk of royalty and marriage put her off balance, for she was a princess herself, with a duty to a throne and an enclave like any other royal woman. Elders might live long, seemingly endless years, but there was still a need for heirs. Isibel Beldane and Cadrigan of the Dawn had not wed for love, but for strength, and for a child to keep the enclave when the Monarch could not. At least I have time, where mortals don’t. At least my mother does not force me into choices I don’t want to make. She felt warm again, a cloying heat at her collar. She frowned, fingers pulling at her tunic. Or does she? Is that not what this is? The rule of another driving me forward, in acquiescence or opposition?

She gritted her teeth, feeling the now all too familiar surge of anger in her chest. Cowards, she thought again. In Sirandel and Iona, where Elder warriors would rather sit and hide than fight. Dooming us with their fear.

The flow of ale did not stop. The innkeeper’s wife filled the men’s tankards with a bright smile, then Ridha’s, though she had no intention of drinking any more of the poorly made crop water. Still, she nodded in thanks all the same.

“So how about this proposition of Old Joe’s?” Pole was whispering again, raising a hand to hide his mouth. It did nothing to stop Ridha from hearing, though she wished she could not.

“Joeld Bramble is a loon,” Rye said, dismissive. “It’ll come to nothing. Don’t bother.”

Pole leaned forward on his elbows, too eager. He glanced around the room warily, as if the walls had suddenly grown ears. “Joeld Bramble has family on the coast. They said the Watchful’s been awfully quiet for this time of year. No Jydi, no raids. Not a single longboat spotted since last season.”

Ridha kept her eyes low, on the table carved with crude initials and cruder words. But her focus homed in on the men. The marriage of a mortal queen did not interest her, but this was different. Odd. The hairs on her neck stood up.

“So he thinks he can take their place, can he?” Rye sputtered. “In what, a canoe?”

“I’m only saying. If the Jydi raiders aren’t raiding, someone else can do it. Make it seem like raiders. Smash up a shrine, rob a few churches, maybe take some goats. Disappear back across the Castlewood and none’s the wiser.” Pole ticked off each step of the poor and foolish plan on his fingers. But it was not the scheme that interested the immortal. She furrowed her brows, trying to think. “Raiders blamed, we come home rich.”

Rye remained silent and pressed his lips together, looking over at his companion. Pole grimaced, preparing himself for another rebuke, but it never came. “Maybe Old Joe has an idea,” Rye finally murmured, winking an eye.

Her chair scraped across the floor, shocking in the quiet. Both men jumped in their seats, looking up at Ridha as she stood. She wagered she was taller than both, in boots or bare feet.

“Does your Old Joe have any idea why the Jydi have stopped raiding?” she said clearly, looking between them. They both gaped; then Rye turned sour, his face crinkling.

“You listening to our private conversation?” he sneered.

Ridha fished out a penny for the ale and left it on the tabletop. “I find it difficult not to.”

Pole was less offended. In fact, he seemed enamored by the attention. “No, he didn’t say,” he replied.

Ridha did not miss him shuffling in his seat, making room for her in the corner, should she feel so inclined. I’d rather sidle up to a troll than to scabby, bald Pole.

“Didn’t know, you mean,” she sighed.

Pole shrugged. “Same thing.”

“What’s it matter to you, lady knight?” Rye spat, trying to insult her with a compliment.

Though she had little cause to explain, Ridha heard herself do it anyway. Even the barmaid listened, leaning forward as she pretended to clean a glass with a dirty rag.

“Jydi raiders are fine sailors and finer fighters,” the Elder said. “Cutthroats, warrior pirates, borne of summer snow and winter storms. They’re hard people. If they aren’t raiding, there’s a reason. A good one.”

Even immortals knew the sting of a raider blade, or they had in centuries past. The Jydi were not afraid of the Vederan nor had they forgotten them like the other mortal kingdoms. The lure of their riches was too great. Ridha herself had fought a raiding party with her kin, on the northern shores of Calidon some decades ago. She had not forgotten it.

“I suggest you tell your friend that,” she warned, heading for the stairs.

Though the sun was still high outside, with dusk hours away, Ridha shut herself up for the evening, for there was work to do and plans to be laid out.

Her decision was made.

Sometime past midnight, the two men did try to rob her. She sent them both out the open window. Judging by his limping retreat, poor old Pole broke an ankle in the fall. The innkeeper and his wife tried an hour before dawn, though the wife seemed reluctant. Ridha let the blow of his rusty ax glance off her armor before warning him not to harangue travelers, especially women. This time she made sure to close the window before shoving him through it, spilling glass all over the yard below.

At least the children had done their part. Nirez was groomed and watered, well rested and ready for the long road to Kovalinn, the enclave deep in the fjords and mountains of the Jyd. Something was wrong in the north, as it was wrong at the temple.

Perhaps it was already knocking at the door, or beating down their walls.

Ridha of Iona intended to find out.