He nudged Ereal’s shoulder with his nose, but of course she did not respond. He stood forlornly there with head lowered, until he detected their approach. He ran at them, ears locked down and teeth bared, and stopped before them, scraping his hoof on the ground.

“Oh, Crane,” Karigan murmured.

Crane whirled on his haunches and returned to Ereal to stand guard over her. He clamped her sleeve between his teeth and shook her arm trying to awaken her. Ereal had once told Karigan that Crane was better than a rooster. When encamped during a message run, he would unfailingly awaken her this way every sunrise. Karigan remembered Ereal’s laughter as she told of the time Crane had actually pulled off her blanket. “He loves to run,” Ereal had said, “and he’s eager to go every morning.”

Ty’s face blanched as Crane tugged at Ereal’s sleeve. “I can’t do this,” he said, and he walked away.

Karigan sighed. There were several reasons why Ty needed Crane, not least was Crane’s experience as a messenger horse. Messenger horses were trained for endurance and cross country travel in ways that ordinary horses were not, and of course, Crane was the fastest messenger horse. King Zachary needed to know what had happened here as soon as possible.

And there were the other reasons.

She started toward Crane, cautiously. He peered at her from beneath his forelock, watching closely, tensing his body. As she neared he snorted and the ears went down again. Karigan halted.

“You know me, Crane. Easy, boy.”

She inched toward him, talking to him all the time, trying to explain to him how things were. Messenger horses were intelligent, but she had no idea how far that intelligence went. Was it asking too much for Crane to understand what she said? Or, was it simply the tone of her voice that calmed him, and allowed her to approach? When finally she was within reach, he gently breathed on her outstretched hand, took a tentative step forward, and rested his head on her shoulder.

“Poor boy,” Karigan said. “I’ll see to Ereal. I promise.”

She caressed him for a time, then slipped the halter she had brought over his nose and ears, and led him away from his slain Rider.

Karigan watched Ty and Crane ride off and disappear into the night. She sank to the ground and huddled her knees to her chest, staring into the dark long after they were gone.

When she had returned to Sacor City to become a Green Rider, she had a better idea than most new Riders of what dangers messengers faced in the daily execution of their duties. The danger ranged from riding accidents to coming face to face with cutthroats seeking king’s gold. And of course, there was battle.

Even so she had not been prepared for this. Trained for fighting, yes. Trained to deal with burying friends, no.

Karigan thought back to the murals of the gods down in the tomb, their faces averted, their hands up in denial. Maybe they had abandoned the delegation, for hadn’t they allowed all this to happen?

I do not regret this life, Bard had said just hours ago, but he said it thinking ahead to the future when he’d finally pursue his dream of studying at Selium. Now he would never fulfill that dream. It had all been cut short. Cut short by his duty as a Green Rider.

Journal of Hadriax el Fex

Though we have been here two months, I still marvel over the magnificence of these New Lands. The coast is rugged with thick spires of evergreens that grow boundlessly beyond the horizon. We could make fleets upon fleets of ships from them for the Empire. Our own vessels rest at anchor in a large bay the inhabitants call Ull-um.

These lands have no lack of resources—abundant wildlife and amazing fisheries. Vast schools of fish swim in the bay, and it is almost impossible not to catch them. Captain Verano laughed that they were trying to flip right into his gig as he sailed about the bay.

This is a primitive place, wild and nearly untouched. The fresh water is cool and refreshing, and the air good to breathe, far better than the noxious vapors above our cities in Arcosia, and the dying lands that surround them. This is a vital place.

We have also found evidence of etherea. Mostly it is the heathen priests who possess the use of the art, and it is used in the most ridiculous “religious” ceremonies to prove they are touched by the favor of their numerous gods. Alessandros and I have been much amused by their displays. Alessandros has not yet shown them his own command of the art, and has likewise ordered the other mages to conceal their abilities for the time being.

The Sacor people are squalid, living in rough longhouses, their children crawling on dirt floors with vermin and dogs. They are warlike among one another, the chieftains waging war over petty differences. They are quite in awe of our fine dress and trinkets, and look upon our mechanicals with some curiosity and fear. Alessandros thinks these people should be easy to tame, and will welcome the embrace of the Empire.

THE SUMMER THRONE ROOM

Six ...

Laren Mapstone, captain of His Majesty’s Messenger Service, the Green Riders, silently counted off the hours as the distant notes of the bell tolled down in Sacor City.

Seven . . .

The bell had been installed in the Chapel of the Moon’s tower on the occasion of the king’s last birthday. It—and the rumbling of her stomach—reminded her all too well that the supper hour had come and gone quite some time ago.

Eight . . .

The final doleful tone hung in the air for a time before mercifully fading away. Laren grimaced and shifted her stance, eyeing the king’s elderly castellan with envy. Sperren slept as peacefully as a baby in his chair. She, on the other hand, had been standing for hours at the king’s side as he listened to petitioners. Her back was killing her.