“There’s one thing I’m not so good at,” Fergal said.
“Oh?”
“Arms Master Gresia wanted me to practice swordplay. She said you would coach me well.”
A smile formed on Karigan’s lips. “Fetch the practice blades, then.”
Karigan ran him through basic exercises, beginning to see him as any arms master might see the untrained as raw material with much to sculpt; technique to hone and skill to develop. Fergal was right: he was “not so good” at swordplay, and if she felt demoralized by his superior ability in knife throwing, the swordplay restored her self-confidence. She recognized, however, the potential for him to improve, and she resolved to return him to Sacor City a better swordsman than he left.
The wooden blades cracked through the forest as dusk swallowed late afternoon. When it was too dark to see, they retired to the cabin for a simple, but warm, meal.
Preble Waystation was more heavily used than others Karigan had stayed in and so was larger, with three beds instead of one, should chance bring in more than one Rider at a time, and its fragrant cedar closet was filled with more replacement gear than was usual. There was additional paddock space and fodder for the horses as well.
The waystations were for the sole use of Green Riders and had originally been built where no other lodging was available. Over the years, however, the number of Riders had declined, which meant fewer Riders able to stock and maintain the stations, and in some places, the growth of towns had reduced their necessity. As a result, the least used waystations, and those closest to population centers, had been decommissioned long before Karigan entered the messenger service.
Riders welcomed the waystations not only for the shelter they provided along the road, but for their sense of security. They had been built to blend into the landscape and had been warded with spells to keep out unwanted intruders. The wards didn’t keep the wildlife out, however, and it wasn’t unusual for Riders to have to dislodge squirrel nests from chimneys or chase bats out the door with brooms. On a few occasions, Riders had arrived at a waystation to discover a bear had broken in and made a terrible mess. And then there was Garth’s encounter with the Skunk…The poor man had been ostracized for weeks.
Even if none of these creatures had taken up lodging in a waystation, their littlest cousins were inevitable residents. Sweeping out mouse droppings was usually the first order of business for a Rider settling into a waystation for the night.
Karigan knew that Captain Mapstone dreamed of her Riders one day being permanently posted not at these simple waystations, but at larger relays built in Sacoridia’s towns and cities. Even if all the Rider brooches in the captain’s coffer were claimed, Karigan wondered if there would be enough Riders to fulfill her dream. If so, then relay stations would offer a more efficient use of Green Riders and swifter message delivery.
These were some of her meandering thoughts as she sat rocking before the cobblestone hearth, warming her stocking feet before the fire, a mug of tea cupped in her hands. It was, she thought, better to look ahead to a positive future rather than worry about Eletians or the wall. Here she was on an ordinary errand that, despite its rough beginning, was going smoothly and making good time. Of course, they had farther to go and hadn’t even reached their first destination. Anything could go wrong between now and then.
“Osric M’Grew was the last one here,” Fergal said. He was flipping through the waystation’s logbook. “He was here last month.”
Karigan nodded, her eyes half-closed as she watched the flames flare and twist. “I suppose you could sign us in.”
Fergal did so eagerly. Karigan had seen from his lessons that his handwriting was wobbly and his spelling atrocious, but he could spell his own name. She had to help him with hers. There was some blotting of ink and intense concentration as he recorded the date and wrote, The weather is nice.
When he finished, he continued to leaf through the pages, pausing now and then to read. “Pretty boring,” he said. “Mostly dates and names.”
Karigan restrained the impulse to roll her eyes. “Our entry isn’t very exciting either.”
“I know.” Fergal sounded so disappointed that Karigan did roll her eyes.
She had weighed whether or not to tell him about the Eletians that passed their campsite some nights ago, but for some reason, she felt as though it had been a vision meant only for her. There was also the “personal message” at least one among them left her. Wasn’t it her duty to report any unusual sightings in the logbook as a warning to other Riders who passed this way?
She said nothing, did not request Fergal to pass her the logbook. She remained silent about the Eletians because it was her, not the other Riders, with whom they were playing games.
A snort from Fergal startled her back to the present.
“What?”
Fergal read slowly and carefully, not quite getting all the words right, an entry from Mara Brennyn: “…I saved myself when my ability emerged for the first time; a ball of flame erupted from my palm and lit the kindling when my fingers were too numb to strike flint. Actually, I almost burned down the forest…”
Several miles north of Preble Waystation, at a campsite along a woods trail, Mara had broken through the ice of a pond in deepest winter. The emergence of her ability to create fire had saved her from freezing to death. Karigan once asked Mara what she had been doing on the pond, and the Rider had blushed. “Ice skating. I carry my blades with me during the winter. I thought the pond was safe.”