First Rider's Call by Kristen Britain Page B

Everson and Karigan kept pace with him out of deference. Ansible looked to have aged a hundred years—his skin had gone gray from sickness, and his chin and now-gaunt cheeks were covered by silvery beard bristles. His uniform, such as it was, hung from his shoulders. It was quite a change from the impeccable officer she knew him to be.
    To Ansible’s right walked Major Everson, who looked sharp and well fed as only an officer of the light horse could, all shiny buttons and high polished boots. Upon Ty’s return, the king had ordered the cavalry to intercept, aid, and protect the survivors of the delegation. Everson was a grotesque contrast to his haunted companions, beaming from behind an ostentatious mustache as though he were entirely responsible for the deliverance of the delegation.
    Karigan walked at Ansible’s left. She wore her hair tightly bound back which made the hollows of her cheeks stand out all the more. Her swordbelt slipped down her hips and she hastily snatched it back up. Every movement of her body suggested exhaustion and she walked with a footsore gait. Her boots, Laren noted, looked worn as if she had done more walking than riding. What of Condor?
    Karigan’s entrance held faint resemblance to one she had made a year or so ago. Laren well-remembered that whole affair; she could still hear Neff’s voice ringing through the throne room as he announced Karigan’s name—and title : “Karigan G’ladheon, sub-chief of Clan G’ladheon!”
    Zachary and Laren had exchanged surprised glances, surprised because they thought by this time never to see her here again.
    Karigan had been accompanied by an entourage of a cargo master and guards, a secretary, and numerous servants; an entourage large enough to rival any noble’s. Zachary stood—unconsciously, Laren had thought—as Karigan glided down the runner, the sun that slanted through the tall windows shining on long brown hair, worn loose across her shoulders. She was draped in elegant silks of purple and blue, the clan colors.
    When finally she had come before the throne, she put her hand to her heart and bowed. Her entourage was two seconds behind in emulating her.
    What followed was an unbelievable display of wares—servants bringing before Laren and Zachary bolts of high quality wools dyed a perfect forest green, five different grades of leather, from supple to hard, gold silk and thread for formal uniforms, furs to line winter greatcoats, and the finest linens Laren had ever seen. Servants presented hogsheads filled with buttons and buckles, and samples of silver and iron.
    Stevic G’ladheon was following up on his agreement to supply the Green Riders, but previous shipments had gone straight to the quartermaster without much ado, and none had been of this magnitude. It made Laren wonder what lay behind this display. Had Karigan come to flaunt her status as sub-chief and her defiance of the Rider call? If so, such arrogance was not like the Karigan she remembered.
    Laren glanced at Zachary and had to do a double take. He looked entranced, not so much by the wares brought before him, but by Karigan, who supervised her servants with gentle authority, using but a nod or a gesture of her hand to direct them. She held herself well, aristocrati cally, a description she would not have appreciated. She had matured a good deal since last they had seen her. Zachary’s expression was inscrutable.
    When the display of wares finally ceased, Karigan had said, “Clan G’ladheon makes one final offering.” She turned to the cargo master and started pulling rings off her fingers. “Sevano, these are my official seals and clan rings. Please see that they return home safely.”
    The old man’s eyes grew large. “What are ye doing, lass? Those are important—”
    She did not stop but removed a medallion from around her neck. “I do not need this either.”
    Laren thought the old man was going to faint. “Your authority from the guild as—as sub-chief.