In time, they descended from the stars and glided through the dark of night, through the canopy of the forest to the floor. The greens and browns of the woods were intensely deep as if damp.

The beat still carried the dream, but this time it was not hooves or wings, but Abram Rust swinging his ax against the trunk of a great white pine. When he stopped, an echo continued the pulsing rhythm. He mopped his brow of sweat and turned to her. This tree will make the mast of a ship that will carry you through the Ages.

A winged horse was carved into the trunk. Abram Rust laughed, and with one more mighty blow, the tree crashed to its side leaving a gaping hole in the canopy to the sky. The night was coated with stars like a sprinkling of sugar.

Then the dreams dissipated, like pipe smoke.

GRAY ONE

“I’ve seen nothing like that,” the blacksmith snapped. “You had best move on. Folks here don’t take kindly to your type.”

Joy Overway watched in resignation as the blacksmith disappeared into the hazy dark of his shop. His was the same response she had received all day. She wondered if the good citizens of North would honestly tell her if they had seen F’ryan’s horse, or the girl. Not without a hefty bribe, no doubt. She carried just enough currency to get her to Selium, then back to Sacor City, with none left over for bribes. Alas, she didn’t possess Captain Mapstone’s talent for seeing the truth in a person’s words.

The most forthcoming citizen had been a fortune-teller in one of the inns. Joy frowned. The woman had predicted ominous and mysterious things, and had placed on the table a fortune card of a messenger fleeing arrows. “What’s this?” she had asked. The fortune-teller leaned forward, her eyes wide. “You will not find what you seek if you stay on your present course,” she whispered. “If you do continue down this path, your footsteps will lead you to disaster.”

Joy had left in disgust. More time wasted. The fortune-teller hadn’t even bothered to concoct a prediction as to where F’ryan’s horse was, or where she might locate the girl. Just these vague, titillating warnings that were the common practice for the fortune-telling trade, used to draw the unsuspecting in to spend more currency for more fabricated prognostications. Strange part was, the fortune-teller hadn’t even hinted at a fee for the information she did provide.

Joy mounted her horse and guided him down the muddy “main street” which flowed between ramshackle mercantiles and a seeming overabundance of pubs, and no too few brothels among them. At this peak hour in the afternoon, these places were quiet. Much of the populace was out in the woods felling trees. Soon enough however, after the sun set, the town would erupt with noise, light, and life.

When the river could be forded later in the season, most Green Riders preferred bushwhacking across the countryside in a circuitous route rather than riding directly through North. If time was of the essence, then they might gallop through town so fast that no one was the wiser. Unfortunately, Joy’s mission entailed that she make inquiries in the village itself. And she had made enough of those as far as she was concerned. The people here were incredibly hostile.

She patted Red Wing’s neck. “We’ll spend a peaceful night at the waystation, then get as far away from this place as possible.”

Red Wing bobbed his head as if in agreement. They headed south through town at a walk. Joy didn’t want to give the locals the satisfaction of seeing her run.

In all, it was a strange assignment she had been sent on. Perhaps it wasn’t so strange for her to look for F’ryan’s horse if he still carried the message. But the girl? Someone had pull with Captain Mapstone, and that particular someone had to have a lot of pull. It was not in the captain’s nature to involve her messengers in non-Rider affairs.

Connly had sent her a very good image of the girl. Whoever sought her must have been describing her as he sent. The girl was in her late teen years, a young woman actually, and had a well-structured face, was tall, and dressed well. An aristocrat? Connly didn’t elaborate.

Joy smiled. Every contact with Connly was like a gentle caress on her mind. Every night they united this intimate way, their minds touching, sending words and pictures back and forth. It helped make their separation more bearable, though it was no substitute for being together.

She reined Red Wing around a group of people, the King-Haters, as she had taken to calling them. The Anti-Monarchy Society was just so much hoof glop. They were spreading ill rumors about King Zachary, and the people of North fell into their cause with relish.

“You are a slave, sister!” one of the people told her. “A kingless land is a free land. Monarchy is tyranny.”

Joy urged Red Wing into a canter before the King-Haters could start chanting more slogans. “I wouldn’t be doing this job if I didn’t believe in my king,” she told her horse. “I’m no slave.”

Once Joy was out of town, she exhaled with relief, and pulled Red Wing to a walk. She could feel her muscles loosen as the tension lifted from her. The road was quiet except for the chorusing of peepers in the lengthening shadows. Only one other rider headed in-town. He was cloaked entirely in gray and rode at a leisurely walk. Red Wing pressed his ears back against his neck.

“What is it?” she asked him.

Red Wing snorted and sidestepped as the rider drew abreast of them. The man was cloaked and hooded, and she couldn’t tell anything about him, except for a tendril of gold hair that escaped his hood. He drew his horse to a halt.

Joy nodded to him and rode on by. He did not speak to her, or even acknowledge her, and she was glad. Something about him made the back of her neck twinge. She glanced over her shoulder to see if he had ridden on. He hadn’t. He was following her.