Witness of the Past
K arigan was beyond tired. As she wearily made her way back to the Rider wing, she hoped none of her fellow messengers were up and about. She had no wish to be confronted with questions and comments, an inevitability given her attire.
With slight limping steps on blistered feet, she entered the Rider wing. She paused to kick off her stiff city shoes and picked them up. The cold stone floor was numbing.
All appeared quiet. She hurried past closed doors, the hem of her skirts wisping along the floor.
She hesitated at the open common room door, found the chamber dark and empty, and continued on in relief.
However, when she turned the corner into the corridor where her own chamber lay, a single figure stood there half in the shadow cast by a lamp at low glow. Tegan.
Tegan’s eyes widened in surprise at Karigan’s sudden arrival and it took a moment for recognition to register, but when it did, her surprise turned to mischief. She placed her hands on her hips and said, “You appear to be rather lost, my lady.”
Karigan drew herself up, and affecting an imperious air, she replied, “A true lady is never lost. Merely inconvenienced.”
Tegan burst out laughing. “And I seem to recall a certain lady being mightily inconvenienced when she spent weeks bushwhacking through the woods this spring.”
Karigan sniffed. “Insolent knave! Scoundrel! To impugn my good lady-ness.” Alas, it was true. The bushwhacking had been extremely inconvenient.
Tegan sputtered and laughed again. She had probably been the last person Karigan wanted to run into, considering their tiff over the harvest ball and gowns, but she was relieved to find her friend in good spirits and joined in with the laughter.
“Seriously,” Tegan said, “what in the world have you been up to?”
“Long story,” Karigan replied. She hopped from one frozen foot to the other.
“It always is with you,” Tegan said with a chuckle. Where had Karigan heard that before? “But let’s have a better look at that gorgeous gown you’re wearing.”
“I need off this cold floor,” Karigan said, and she led the way into her chamber. Inside she leaned her bonewood staff against the wall and stepped into a pair of slippers. Tegan helped to light lamps while Karigan stoked the fire in the hearth.
“The tailoring on that gown is amazing,” Tegan said. “I had no idea you knew Madam Twoford.”
Of course Tegan would recognize the maker. She had a keen eye for such things and knew many of the seamstresses in the city.
“My clan has supplied her for years,” Karigan replied. Unfortunately, due to her clan’s present state, she hadn’t been able to conjure up the fabrics the madam currently desired.
Tegan pulled out the chair at Karigan’s desk and sat. “I’m an idiot.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Acting as if I know all the finest dressmakers in the city when of course your clan has been doing business with them all along.”
“That is my father and others of the clan doing business with them. I didn’t really know any until recently. I’ve never had reason to have a special gown made since I’ve become a Rider.”
“But why didn’t you tell me you had a gown suitable for the harvest ball?” Tegan asked. “I wouldn’t have pestered you.”
Karigan hesitated before answering. She had worked hard to keep her clan work separate from her role as a Green Rider, and particularly did not need anyone, not even her friends, knowing how desperate the situation was.
Reputation was everything among the merchant class, and Tegan’s clan was in the realm of dyers, which meant it was well acquainted with textile merchants like Clan G’ladheon.
She hadn’t wanted to put her friend into a position of keeping such a secret, or otherwise take a chance it would be leaked.
“The gown was not made for the ball, but merchant business with the guild.”
“It could certainly serve both purposes,” Tegan said.
Karigan gave a curt shake of her head, indicating she was not interested in revisiting the issue. At that moment, Ghost Kitty entered her room, crossed over to where she stood, and sniffed her skirts before flopping in front of the fire.
Ghost Kitty was followed by Mara Brennyn, who gave Karigan a thorough looking over. “Abducted by fishermen?” she demanded.
“What?” Tegan said.
“Hello to you, too,” Karigan replied. “I allowed them to take me. More or less. I didn’t want to ruin my gown.” There was some truth to that.
“Hah! Connly told me everything,” Mara said.
“Abducted by fishermen?” Tegan demanded. “What did I miss?”
Before long, Karigan found herself repeating the entire story to Tegan.
“Those Turvals don’t sound like the sharpest bunch,” Tegan remarked. “Marriage into that family would have been a considerable reversal of fortune.”
“From Eletian nobility to fishwife,” Mara said.
“There is nothing wrong with being a fishwife,” Karigan said with a sniff, “if that is your way of life and what you want. I am a Green Rider.”
Her friends nodded in approval.
“But this wraith.” Tegan shuddered. “I thought we were done with them.”
“Me, too,” Mara said in a quiet voice. Her face, and much of her body, bore the burn scars of her encounter with one.
They fell into silence and shadow seemed to dim the fire and light.
Karigan shook herself. “Do you mind helping me out of this gown? It’s time to become a Green Rider again. And go to bed. I’m exhausted.”
“I should rather think so,” Mara said, “after the night you’ve had.”
The two helped her with all the stays and layers and carefully stuffed the gown into her wardrobe. She placed all her clan jewelry into a desk drawer for lack of a better place to keep it.
When finally she was left alone in bed, she thought she would be tired enough to fall asleep, but all she could see when she closed her eyes was the soulless face of the wraith.
· · ·
The wraith’s face haunted her dreams throughout the night, so she started her day groggy and feeling as though she walked in shadows.
A visit with Condor alleviated the darkness somewhat, but she found the behavior of Hep’s nephew peculiar.
He kept peering out the stable doors into the pasture as if he expected an attack.
“Something wrong, Darys?” she asked.
He jumped, then reddened. “Uh, no, Rider,” he replied, and hastened to return to cleaning stalls.
She gazed out into the pasture herself, saw nothing unusual, just a bunch of horses grazing. Scary! She chuckled to herself and fed Condor a muffin she had snagged from the dining hall.
She had not been asked to attend the throne room when the Eletians returned, so she went about her duties simultaneously sleepy and anxious about the previous night’s events and what the Eletians might be discussing with Zachary.
She found the dining hall for the midday meal crowded.
She slipped onto a bench across from a guardsman who was scribbling in what appeared to be a journal or logbook as he absently sipped a cup of tea, the remains of his meal pushed aside.
Though he looked familiar, she didn’t interrupt him.
She had enough to think about without starting small talk.
Primary in her mind were the Eletians and wraiths.
The Eletians, she thought as she sipped stew from her spoon, had better not leave without seeing her first as they had done once before.
She and Enver had unfinished business, and then there was everything else to do with her recent adoption into the House of Santanara.
She was breaking off a piece of crusty bread when she noticed the guardsman’s regard.
“Rider G’ladheon, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied warily. Was he going to bring up the Spirit of Light thing?
“Been on gate duty when you’ve come through now and then. Middle gate the night of the fire.”
“Seften, right?” she said, suddenly remembering. She had made him memorize a message to carry up to the castle that night.
“You remember my name.” He seemed both surprised and pleased.
“Took a moment,” she replied. “There are an awful lot of you, and you are rotated often.”
“Yes, it’s true. Tonight I have rooftop duty. Don’t get that one very much. It’s usually reserved for more senior guards.”
The roof of the castle, he meant. She’d been up there a time or two herself. With all its walks, walls, towers, and hoardings, it was a lot of territory to cover, but the view of the city was grand.
“I’m a little surprised,” she said carefully, “you aren’t working as an officer’s aide.” She indicated his journal. While it wasn’t unheard of for a lowly guardsman private to be literate, it wasn’t typical either.
“Oh, I was offered such when I signed on, but I wanted to be where the action was, you know, marching through the wilderness with the Mountain Unit.”
“But,” she said, “you ended up as a guardsman.”
“Yes, and probably better for it.” He laughed. “Dry, warm barracks and hot meals every night, and all. I’ll admit being able to read can put fancies in your head. I fancied myself Gilan Wylloland.”
Karigan grinned at the mention of the central character from her favorite book, The Journeys of Gilan Wylloland. She’d had similar fancies herself, only to learn that adventures weren’t all the stories said they were.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” she said, “where did you learn to read?”
“My mum was a tutor for Lord Baily’s children in Oldbury. She brought me with her to lessons, so I learned. I was offered positions in Lord Baily’s house when I came of age, but adventure called.”
“Do you regret your decision to join the guard?” She’d been called mad for leaving the merchant life to become a Green Rider. Not like she’d had a choice . . .
“Not one bit,” he replied. “It’s been interesting. Maybe too interesting at times.”
“I understand.”
They both laughed, and he said, “I have no doubt. You Riders get into the worst sorts of trouble. As for me, it’s worth it.
I meet all kinds of folk from all over when I’m working one of the gates, and I get to help to protect the realm from its enemies.
I’m real proud of our king and queen, and of our people and how we stood against Second Empire. ”
This Karigan understood, as well.
Seften then leaned forward conspiratorially. In a soft voice Karigan heard despite the clamor of the dining hall, he said, “Besides, it’s all good fodder for a book.”
“A book?”
“Like Gilan Wylloland.”
“You’re writing a novel?”
He laughed. “I’d like to. My duties keep me busy, but I collect my ideas here.” He tapped the cover of his journal.
There was nothing special about the journal.
It was bound with plain leather, scarred and scratched by use, and stained by a blotch of ink or two.
However, a chill air, like a breath from the depths of the heavens or time drafted against the back of her neck and raised the hairs on her arms. A vision of another journal superimposed itself over the one sitting on the table.
The journal of the vision was in much rougher condition, half-charred and badly stained, its pages stiffened as though from water damage.
It was held in the hands of the man she had known as the professor in the future.
Unbidden words poured from her lips: “Without witnesses, there is no story of the past. Keep writing for the sake of the future.”
She shivered violently, caught for a moment in a dark, cold place.
“Rider?”
Drawn back into the world of light and the usual noise of the dining hall, she shook her head. Another guardsman dropped a mug and the resounding crash made her jump. There were hoots and applause from his fellows.
“Rider?” Seften said again. “You all right?”
“Fine.” She’d been caught in a memory of the future, almost as if she’d been momentarily swept there, but it swiftly evaporated.
She was thankful for it even if it had not lasted.
However, some essence of the professor—Professor Josston—lingered.
His kindness, and an impression of his fondness for. ..old buttons?
She looked up when she realized Seften was asking her a question. “Sorry?”
“I was just asking if you minded if I recorded your words,” he replied. “They seem quite wise.”
“My words?” She had already forgotten them.
“How without witnesses there are no stories of the past.”
“Oh. Go ahead.” She had said that? She was feeling a bit muddled, and even more so when she felt a thread that was part of the great tapestry of the universe was not snapped but spun into a new whole.