THE ARMOR OF PRINCESS FLORENCE
“Princess who?” Karigan asked.
“Florence,” Estora replied. “While Elgin Foxsmith was researching historical documents related to Green Riders in wartime, he came across a reference to her, a snippet of verse from five centuries ago. It went something like this:
Fair warrior maiden of the Sacor Clans, was she,
Sealender’s scion,
Daughter of kings
For whom the storm glass sings,
Champion of Alendriel Field
and fell enemy of the Urzek Horde,
Rider of swift Swallowtail,
Princess Florence Aventine.
“It turns out,” Estora continued, “the verse was her epitaph, and that the caretakers in the tombs were aware of her, for there is a memorial dedicated to her in the Sealender wing of the tombs.”
Vasper moved behind Karigan to measure her shoulders.
“Why would you want me to wear her armor? A princess from five centuries ago?” It then dawned on Karigan that Elgin had been researching Rider history, and Swallowtail was the name of a winged creature, a butterfly. “Of course. She was a Green Rider.”
Estora nodded. “When she died upon Alendriel Field, far out on the Wanda Plains, it was a great loss to the realm. She sacrificed herself so her brother, King Darien the Second, could win the day.”
Karigan thought back on her history lessons at Selium. About five hundred years ago, King Darien and his forces drove the mysterious Urzek people out of Sacoridia, and there had been a decisive battle on the Wanda Plains. She recalled no mention of this Princess Florence, or of any Green Riders whatsoever. Of course, she hadn’t been the most attentive student at the time, so she might have missed it, or, as was typical when it came to anything having to do with the Green Riders, the historians had, unwittingly or not, failed to preserve the contributions of Princess Florence.
“Her remains were interred beneath a cairn where she fell,” Estora said, “but her armor was brought back, or perhaps this was a second suit she owned. In any case, it has been well taken care of down in the tombs.”
“The armor will fit,” Master Vasper announced. “Not exactly perfect, but as well as we can expect when it is not tailored specifically to Sir Karigan.”
“Well enough for a parley,” Estora said. “Please arm Sir Karigan.”
“Yes, madam.” Vasper left them for the adjoining chamber.
“Who called the parley?” Karigan asked.
“Birch,” Estora replied. “No doubt to set the terms of our surrender.”
Karigan was not surprised.
As Estora stepped out to attend to other preparations, Vasper returned with the armor to begin the arming process. First she had to remove her shortcoat, then draw on a padded doublet. Afterward he presented her with Rider Princess Florence’s armor. It did not look five hundred years old, and shone at high polish. The plate was etched with feathers in gilt. It was not ostentatious, and it reminded Karigan of the gold embroidery on Colonel Mapstone’s coat. For all that it was in amazing condition for its age, it was not pristine parade armor, for there were scratches, dints, and dents that were the evidence of battle.
Vasper cradled a greave in his arms like a baby. “Beautiful armor, is it not? Made by a master of his craft of the period.”
“It is,” she agreed.
He clad her, starting with her feet and working upward. While Karigan had worn cuirasses before, she’d never worn full plate, at least not of the Earthly kind. The star steel armor she had worn as the avatar of Westrion did not, she thought, count.
The armor was not heavy, though not insubstantial like star steel, of course, and the hinges of the articulated plates made movement easy, almost flexible. A warrior could fight unhindered in this armor, which was most desirable.
Vasper buckled a sword around her waist. “It didn’t belong to Princess Florence but comes from our stores. Weapon Travis has knotted a swordmaster’s silk around it.”
She half-drew the sword and observed the black silk tied beneath the guard. Each of the knots was symbolic of a Weapon attribute. She remembered Fastion going through them for her the night she’d passed her swordmaster’s test. The first is for loyalty, he had said. The second is for honor. The third is for protection, and the fourth is for death. The purpose of swords, after all, he had reminded her, was to reap death.
She slid the sword home and sighed. Weapons.
Then she thought of the verse Estora had recited, the epitaph of Rider Princess Florence. “Master Vasper,” she said, “do you know what the ‘storm glass’ was that was mentioned in the epitaph?”
“I do not,” he replied. “I was wondering about it myself, if it were some sort of weapon.”
She guessed it would have to remain a mystery for the time being.
Vasper finished the arming with the brevor and helmet. This part she did not care for because it limited her vision and muffled her hearing. She immediately pushed back the visor. It helped, but not greatly.
The arming had not taken long, but a weariness settled on her, probably from having been awakened too soon. And there was still the unsettling sensation that a part of her was absent, perhaps still dreaming far away from the waking world.
She stepped up to a full-length mirror to get a look at herself. She could not believe how she looked, like a knight of legend. Had Princess Florence once gazed into a mirror to observe herself in this very armor? Karigan turned one way, and then the other, to view herself at different angles, how light flowed over the steel. She was pleased, very pleased, and so was Estora when she returned.
“Why did you wish me to wear Princess Florence’s armor in particular?” Karigan asked. “I realize she was a Green Rider, but I am sure there is other, less important plate I could wear.”
“The fact that she was a Green Rider is the obvious reason,” Estora said, “but also that she was a great hero of her time. She was beloved by her people. The caretakers found many scrolls of ballads, poems, and laments that were written in the years following her death. Everything we do for this parley is symbolic and about appearances. Though Birch may know nothing of Florence, we do, which is an important reminder of past triumphs by our people. He will sense our pride as we approach him.” She gave Karigan a half-smile. “It is good to remember that not all battles are waged on the cutting edge of a sword.”
Their party consisted of six Weapons in black armor, one who bore a plain black banner to represent them, a guardsman bearing the banner of the firebrand and crescent moon, a city guard who unfurled a pennant representing the walls and castle of Sacor City, and Karigan, who, it turned out, was to carry the banner of the Green Riders. It was not the one King Santanara had given Lil Ambrioth in ancient days, but a perfectly fine specimen embroidered with a gold winged horse on a field of green. Another Weapon joined them belatedly and raised the queen’s royal standard, a field halved by the Hillander terrier and the cormorant of Coutre.
The Winding Way emptied for the queen and her company. At first, the bystanders watched in silence as they passed, but then a roar of approval began to rise along their route to deafening levels. Estora did not wave or acknowledge the crowds as she normally would but rode ahead with an unwavering gaze and an air of determination.
“The Rose Queen!” someone shouted, for her armor gleamed even in the dim, cloudy light of the day and outshone the armor of those who rode in her party, including that of Princess Florence. Others took up the cry until thousands shouted in unison, “The Rose Queen! The Rose Queen!”
Karigan patted the strong neck of the handsome, heavily-muscled warhorse she’d been given to ride. She did not know why she hadn’t been given Condor, except for what Estora had said about the importance of appearances, and this big dappled gray was certainly impressive. She did not know to whom he belonged, but he had an unaffected, genial nature even when the crowds and noise could have so easily made him nervous. His gait was easy, but he was so wide it was rather like riding an extra large barrel. With no name attached to him, she decided to call him Pumpkin.
Riding in Princess Florence’s armor was not difficult, but with her legs sheathed in steel, she did lose some contact with Pumpkin’s sides. She was also conscious of the subtle impact on her center of balance, tipping this way or that with the additional, unaccustomed weight, but she soon grew used to it.
When they reached the lower city, the civilians were kept away from the gate and wall, out of the way of the city’s defenders. The guard, and those who more recently had taken up arms in defense of the city, stood on the wall’s walkway or tended the gate.
Karigan, and the rest of Estora’s entourage, halted before the gate. The cheers and shouts died down until there was almost silence. In the distance, back in the middle city, the bell of the chapel of the moon started tolling. Estora nodded and the guard began the process of opening the gate.
Karigan waited on Pumpkin with some curiosity and dread, but also feeling disconnected, separated from the world by plate armor and the odd sensation that part of her remained asleep. She shook herself to stay focused. While it was likely Birch would obey the customs of parley, there was no guarantee, so she must keep her wits about her.
It took several guards to crank and lift the gate open. It was extremely thick, constructed from ancient oaks from the deeps of the Green Cloak, and bound with iron. Once the gate was open, wind blew into the city as though to herald a coming storm. Banners snapped and fluttered, and the party rode out.
They passed the remnants of refugee huts and campsites. There was the unwelcome stench of death emanating from corpses impaled by arrows. Brienne, Karigan recalled, had mentioned that Second Empire had made feints at the wall and gate. The wind lifted cloaks of the dead lending them unnatural life.
In the distance, across far-flung fields, the enemy massed like a bruise upon the land, the clouds brooding overhead. Estora led the party into a canter. Karigan clucked Pumpkin on and at last felt the power of his gait as he surged forward. It was rather pleasant, like sitting on a rocking horse.
The banner of the Green Riders rippled on the staff she bore. Her place was a flank position with no one to her right, and yet, she sensed someone there riding along with them. At first, when she looked, she could see no one, but a second glance revealed a ghostly horse and rider charging alongside her and Pumpkin. The ghost rider wore armor, but no helm. Instead, a circlet shone upon her brow, her long hair flowing behind her. Her horse ran silently beneath her, her gaze fixed on some unknown point beyond Karigan’s ken.
And then the ghost gazed in Karigan’s direction, and Karigan knew it could only be the spirit of Rider Princess Florence Aventine, daughter of kings and the champion of Alendriel Field, astride swift Swallowtail.