Lorilie drew herself to her full height, which was not considerable, but seemed impressive nonetheless. “Will raising taxes on lumber products protect the folk of North, or other small villages like it? No! It will cast more beggars into the street. More families will go hungry. Despair, my sisters and brothers, will consume them.”

“The king uses the taxes to fortify the country,” the merchant shouted. “I call that protection, what with all the groundmites lurking about the borders these days.”

The crowd cast questioning eyes on Lorilie, but she didn’t hesitate with her response. “Yes, King Zachary is putting the taxes to good use. He is refortifying the wall around Sacor City. He is strengthening the defenses of the castle. This will surely protect the people in the rest of Sacoridia from groundmites.”

This had to be only half the story, Karigan thought, but what if it wasn’t? Maybe the Mirwellians were right. Maybe Sacoridia did need a new king. But Lorilie Dorran did not want a king at all. What would she put in his stead? Herself? Karigan shifted in the saddle, guiding The Horse toward a sudden opening between some clumps of people. She wasn’t ready to side with the Mirwellians or Lorilie Dorran.

“King’s folk will protect Sacoridians!” shouted another man.

Lorilie met his outburst with laughter. “Like they protected the families on the borders? A whole unit of soldiers was slain down the North Road. Is that protection?”

The arguments went back and forth for some time, and Lorilie churned the emotions of the audience. She pounded her fist into her hand to add emphasis. She used facial expressions to affect sadness or anger, her voice alternately beseeching and persuasive. She derided all forms of kingdomship, including those who served the king, such as Green Riders, and accused the wealthy class of supporting the tyranny of the king. The merchants walked away amidst jeers. Lorilie was a master performer, and soon she had the crowd waving their fists above their heads and chanting, “A kingless land is a free land! Monarchy is tyranny!”

Karigan tried to work the horse through the log jam of people and was cursed at for getting in the way. “Well, if you let me through,” she said, “I’ll get out of your way.” In the distance she espied the wooden bridge that spanned the River Terrygood, which upon crossing, would free her from the main portion of the town of North.

Then, above the chanting, one voice rang out, “She’s a Green Rider!”

Karigan froze. Two men pushed through the crowd and pointed in her direction. Abram’s tree poachers. An angry murmur swelled through the crowd though they couldn’t quite figure out who the lumberjacks were pointing at. There was no one dressed in green.

Karigan had to act fast before the anger of the mob, for mob it was now, turned on her. If they realized who the lumberjacks were pointing at, they would tear her apart. She glanced ahead and saw a woman wearing a light green tunic. It was the burly woman she had seen Clatheas giving a card reading to the previous night at The Fallen Tree. Karigan pointed at her and yelled, “There she is! There’s the Greenie!”

An expression of bewilderment, then fear, took over the woman’s face. As the crowd surged toward her, Karigan meandered through the angry people until someone grabbed her boot and tried to pull her from the saddle. It was the two lumberjacks.

“You’re the Greenie,” one yelled at her. Fortunately, no one else could hear over the roar of the crowd. “I heard that troll call you a Green Rider.”

Karigan clung desperately to The Horse’s mane, and gasped as she was pulled inch by inch out of the saddle. A well-placed kick from The Horse, however, quickly ended the struggle, and one of the lumberjacks fell with a howl beneath the feet of the crowd.

Karigan urged The Horse on toward the bridge, heedless of people who got in her way.The Horse did not trample them, but rather pushed them aside like the prow of a boat on the water. When she was clear of the mob, she galloped the horse over the bridge, his hooves clattering on the wooden deck, the river churning frothy and turbulent below and sending up mist and spray that dampened her face. When finally she was across, and thus free of the town except for a few ramshackle shops and a tavern on this bank, she reined the horse in and looked back.

It was impossible to discern exactly what was happening—the mob had become a single moving mass. She wondered what had become of the woman she had “accused” of being a Green Rider. She had done it not out of mischief, but to save herself.

A mounted figure stood amidst the mob, a gray figure fixed like a statue in the middle of a swift-running, roiling stream, unable to move forward or backward. Karigan felt cold, knowing with some certainty that he watched her from beneath his gray hood.

WILD RIDE

Karigan rode for two days, snatching moments of rest when she could no longer keep her eyes open. The landscape varied little—tree stumps interspersed with staghorn sumac and tiny birches and maples growing up where a vast spruce forest once stood. Many of the useless trees had been toppled to allow easier access to the more profitable ones. Their skeletons lay on the ground, bleached gray and dry by the sun.

Karigan’s skin burned, and she felt bleached and dry herself in the intense sunlight without sheltering trees to offer shade. The scolding of squirrels and the spring songs of birds were eerily absent.

She spent much of her time scanning the land. The horse track offered no concealment and anyone could be seen from a long way off. She tried to think of this as an advantage. Without concealment, a trap could not be set for her. She would be able to see her foes from far away.