The Dream Gatherer Read online

  Acadia inspired the environment/landscape of Sacoridia. When I began writing, I did not want to set the book in a traditional European landscape (of which I knew too little) or some generic landscape. Why not an American landscape? I imagined castles in Maine and liked the notion. Sacoridia is not a literal representation of Maine, but it is Mainelike. It has also worked well for the world building. Like the economy in Maine, for instance, Sacoridia’s economy is based largely on natural resources—forest products, shipbuilding, fishing, quarrying, etc. One industry that is one of the largest in Maine but not in Sacoridia is tourism. I’d visit Sacoridia for real if I could.

  Finally, why Green Rider? Well, Pink Rider didn’t sound right (or look aesthetically pleasing in my mind). Green made sense since Sacoridia was densely forested, allowing messengers with their dangerous jobs to blend in better with their surroundings if hunted by bad guys. It is also true that green was part of my ranger uniform.

  That long-ago day when a runaway schoolgirl agreed to carry on a dying Green Rider’s message errand, it changed the course of her life, and mine, too. Twenty years later, here I am working on book seven of the Green Rider Series, still tormenting my characters. It hasn’t been an easy ride, but I can’t imagine anything else that I’d rather be doing. I hope you enjoy the stories that follow. They are my personal celebration of the twentieth anniversary of the publication of Green Rider.

  May yours be a Wild Ride!

  —Kristen

  WISHWIND

  From Karigan G’ladheon and the Green Riders: A History

  by Lady Estral Andovian Fiori, the Golden Guardian of Selium

  Vol. 1, Appx. F “Legends of the Past”

  (2) Legend of Marin the Gardener, Rider Danalong, Wishwind, Northern Sea Archipelago

  Records about Green Rider history from more than two hundred years ago are frustratingly rare due to the time period, the general lack of respect for messengers, and purges of documents related to magic after the war. Perhaps the worst damage was committed by King Agates Sealender, who, in his hatred of his own messengers, sought to destroy anything he could about the Green Riders.

  Much of what we know today has been passed down in oral tradition, though most found the Green Riders unworthy of even that form of historical acknowledgment. Some four hundred years ago, one Selium minstrel, called Wallsin the Younger, took an interest in oral history and wrote down several stories to preserve them. His manuscripts remain in Selium’s archives. He saw fit to include a tale about a Green Rider named Danalong. Marin the Gardener, long a figure of Sacoridian myth, also plays a prominent role in the story.

  Though set during the Long War, the story was recorded six hundred years after peace settled over the lands. Did the Marin myth originate during the Long War, or was she added in as the story was passed down from generation to generation? Or perhaps her existence in myth pre-dated even the ancient time of the Long War. What of Rider Danalong? Was he someone who really lived? How accurate is this account? Other documents support the details of a decisive battle along the Coutre coast referred to in this tale, in which Arey supplied King Jonaeus with reinforcements to repel Mornhavon the Black. But what of Danalong himself? It is unlikely we’ll ever know.

  Wishwind

  Danalong’s nostrils flared with the scents of the ocean and his own blood. He staggered inland shedding droplets of seawater on the forest floor. Step by painful step, he was guided only by the pale gleam of moonlight.

  Wet and racked by chills, he gasped for breath as if drowning, but he was on dry land. It was his comrades, his people, who had drowned. The sea had lashed out and the wind had twisted around, thrusting Windswift onto a hidden shelf, gutting it of cargo, crew, and soldiers. The cries and shouts, horses screaming as they spilled into the waves, the crack of masts as they splintered and toppled. The roar of ocean filling Danalong’s ears. Swallowing great gulps of water, swirling in the waves, drowning, drowning . . .

  Then his flailing hands had fallen upon a plank of wreckage that appeared out of the darkness like a gift bestowed upon him by the gods, and on this he floated to the shore of an unknown island. The surging ocean had slammed him into barnacle-clad rocks that shredded hands, elbows, and knees. Now the cool night air stung the raw wounds.

  He shoved aside tree limbs and crashed through underbrush with drunken momentum, driven inland by instinct, or some force he could not name. Abruptly the thick forest gave way and he stumbled into a moonlit clearing. A vision appeared before him of an ivory-haired woman singing of autumn apples to a fawn as its mother and a bobcat watched on.

  Impossible! he thought, and the world darkened.

  * * *

  Danalong thrashed in the water, waves crashing over his head. The current tried to pull him back under and fill his nose and mouth. The sea took young Jaren and Avery, and Drake and the others. Drawn under one by one, their pale faces and limbs faded beneath the water’s dark surface.

  “No!” he cried and realized he wrestled with blankets and not the ocean. Sunshine and the scent of evergreens flowed through a window above where he lay on a coarse mattress and eased his panic. He was in a one-room croft of stone and the hearth crackled with a day fire. Dried herbs hung from the rafters above. A table laden with bread, honey, and berries occupied the center of the room. All else was obscured in contrasts of sunlight and shadow.

  Might this be Coutre Harbor, he wondered, and the wreck no more than a nightmare? He listened for a time to the piping song of a thrush outside and the rustling of leaves in a breeze. No, not Coutre Harbor, he decided, which would be rank and noisy as a busy seaport always was. The wreck had been no nightmare. The Windswift was truly gone.

  “No,” he whispered. He’d been on a vital mission for King Jonaeus to gather Lord Arey’s troops and lead them to the coast of Coutre, where intelligence said Mornhavon’s forces planned an assault. If Mornhavon took the eastern provinces, it would cost the Sacor Clans the war, and all the years of suffering and slaughter would be for naught. Now with the ship’s loss, the king would receive no reinforcements at all, for Windswift’s sister ship, Wishwind, carrying additional troops and supplies, had vanished in a gale days ago.

  He recalled strong currents and high waves as they approached the Northern Sea Archipelago. It had been the shipmaster’s plan to use the islands to conceal their approach from Mornhavon’s spies despite the archipelago’s dangerous tides and currents. Even more perilous in the minds of some sailors was the archipelago’s reputation for the uncanny. Rife in the dark berths of ships and the taverns of every port town were tales of witches casting spells over unwary mariners and sinking ships, and of the ancient sea kings who were said to slumber in island caves until they awoke once more to dominate the lands.

  The shipmaster of Windswift scoffed at superstition and was confident in his ability to navigate the archipelago’s hazards and the night’s fickle winds. His miscalculation, however, not only cost countless lives aboard ship, but possibly the war itself.

  Both ships lost. No hope.

  The croft’s door opened, and the willowy, ivory-haired woman of Danalong’s previous vision stepped inside and appraised him with granite-gray eyes.

  “You should eat, child,” the woman said, and she gestured at the table.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Marin. Eat. It is late noon and your stomach is empty.”

  “I must go to the shore,” he said. “We were wrecked—my ship. I must help my people.” Then he added more quietly, “If any survive.” He held little hope that any others had survived the violence of the sea.

  “Eat,” Marin told him. “If there are survivors, you are in no condition to aid them at the moment.”

  Danalong wrapped the blanket around himself for underneath he wore only his own skin. His clothes dried before the fire. When he sat at the table he just stared at the food unable to actually eat. Marin bro
ke off a piece of bread and spread it with honey and placed it in his hand.

  “You must find your strength again. You are no good to anyone right now, Green Rider, least of all yourself.”

  He obeyed but did not taste the food. His mind was too full of the previous night’s disaster and wondering about this Marin woman who seemed to know who, or at least what, he was, though his green cloak and winged horse brooch would’ve given that away. Still, her manner was knowing. He felt no threat from her, but found her penetrating gaze and silence uncomfortable.

  Finally, when he finished, Marin spoke. “Your clothes are dry if you choose to wear them.”

  He hadn’t much hope for his uniform to be in any condition to wear, but discovered the tunic and trousers had been stitched and patched, and the cloak was in fine shape. Once dressed, he exhaled in relief, feeling more himself.

  Marin led him outside for fresh air. The croft, cloaked by flower-specked vines, sat by a lake. It was as placid as the sea had been furious.

  Marin scurried to and fro inspecting flowers and trees, chattering to them like old friends. Danalong followed slowly and stiffly, shoulders erect and hands clasped behind his back. He wondered how this Marin woman had come to live on this island the charts indicated was uninhabited, and found her obvious joy in the surrounding nature eccentric. Danalong had been born into war, had grown up in an orphan camp, his own face mirrored in those of the other children—pinched with starvation as they were forced to fletch arrows, or labor in forges and tanneries in service to the war effort. When they grew strong enough to wield the weapons they made, they were sent off to fight. Child warriors returned as grim veterans missing limbs and eyes, haunted by all they had witnessed. If they returned at all.

  To Danalong, nature was important only in how it affected troop movements and strategy, how it could prove an advantage or disadvantage in a given battle. How it could sustain armies. In and of itself, he had given it little consideration, and the only flowers he ever noticed were those placed on graves.

  “I heard how the ocean carried you ashore.” Marin could have been speaking to the trillium blossom she cupped in her hand.

  “My people . . . ” Their screams echoed like a fresh wound in Danalong’s mind. All he could see were bodies with familiar faces floating among the wreckage.

  “It happens.” Marin sighed. “Your shipmaster misjudged the wind.”

  Danalong clawed back a wisp of hair. “The wind turned on us.”

  “Don’t blame the wind, child,” was the gentle reply. “It is not the first time nor the last. I know that you’re worried about the war now that those on the battlefront will be denied aid against the invaders. You are angry because among their leader’s atrocities against your people, he burned the woodlands of your coastal home. A pity, for those were ancient and goodly trees.”

  They had been Danalong’s only refuge as a child. “How do you know so much?”

  “I hear and see things.”

  Sea witch, Danalong thought. She had to be. Why else would she be living on this island? She must scry for her knowledge with magic. He had felt no threat from her, but now he gazed after her in suspicion as she continued along the path. Maybe she was even one of Mornhavon’s sorcerers and she had actually caused the demise of both ships. He knew magic only as a weapon, and, among the Green Riders, his was the deadliest of all.

  A sudden unearthly cry stopped him in his tracks. He reached in reflex for a sword that was not there, a sword he’d thrown into the ocean along with his armor so they would not drag him down into the depths.

  “The loon is back!” Marin pointed to the near shore of the lake.

  A loon. Of course. Danalong relaxed. Loons were rare on the mainland for war had ravaged much that had been beautiful, including the lakes.

  The loon floated low in the water among reeds, then dove without so much as a splash.

  “He has just returned from winter on the ocean.” Marin gazed long at the lake, her eyes distant. “Ancient is the loon’s kind. They knew this land long before humankind ever stepped foot upon it. Before even the Eletians. And while other creatures may pass from existence and memory, the loons remain, surviving many millennia, no matter the travails of the lands.”

  The loon reappeared farther down the lake and called out again, a haunting sound.

  “And sometimes I think,” Marin continued, “they were gifted with the voice to express the loneliness of the ages in a way we cannot.”

  They lingered by the lake with its plash of waves and the fresh scent of spring growth. Serenity enveloped Danalong, but then he frowned and shook himself as if from a spell. The lulling quality of the lake had distracted him from the tragedy of the Windswift. How could he stand here in this beautiful place when his companions had perished? And yet, he could not express his sorrow. He learned as a child that tears would never bring back his family or friends, and had since hardened himself against weeping.

  I can only honor the lost and redeem myself in battle, he thought. His way was to seek vengeance, but it brought only bitter solace. And one question recurred after every battle, and now after the shipwreck: Couldn’t I have saved some of them? His special magical ability was of no help when it came to saving lives.

  “It may seem harsh,” Marin said as if reading Danalong’s thoughts, “but life is for survivors.”

  Danalong turned on Marin. “You would say that after all I’ve lost? The wreck, friends killed in the fighting? Lives lost because the invaders want our land and resources? Mornhavon tortures and enslaves the innocent.”

  Marin sighed heavily. A breeze rippled across the lake. Cattails tossed in its wake and poplar leaves quaked. The air cooled as dusk gathered, and a full moon rose milky white to bob above the treetops.

  Danalong still faced Marin, awaiting a response, his body rigid. The wisp of hair now clung damply to his forehead. Shadows grew long before Marin answered.

  “I do not lean toward the ways of those like Mornhavon. There have been many such as he through the ages of this world, but like all else, they’ve crumbled to dust with time. They fight for dominance as eaglets in the nest, the strongest killing its sibling. Survival.” Marin clasped Danalong’s hand. “Child, you are a survivor. You survived a shipwreck and the violence of the sea. Tomorrow we shall garden, and then maybe you will understand.”

  Gardening? When he had survivors to look for? He also needed to reach the king to warn him no aid would be arriving from Arey.

  “I appreciate your help,” he told Marin. “You’ve been very kind. But, as much as I’d like to . . . garden, I’ve survivors to search for. And might you have a boat? I must reach King Jonaeus. It is quite urgent.”

  “The young ones are always in such haste.” She clucked her tongue. “Child, the healing of wounds takes time, and there is no better salve than gardening.”

  “But—”

  “As for a boat?” She chuckled. “Now what would I do with a boat?”

  “But I need to—”

  “Hush, child. Tomorrow we garden.”

  A warmth seemed to radiate from Marin that soothed Danalong’s fury. Yes, wounds needed healing. He exhaled a deep breath, and watched in fascination as she turned her palm upward and a star seemed to settle on it to light the way.

  * * *

  For all Danalong could tell, Marin possessed no garden. He’d been awakened at sunrise to help, but there was no tilling of soil or weeding. Indeed, Marin proclaimed that weeds had a place in her garden. Her idea of gardening, as it appeared to Danalong, was simply a walk in the woods.

  “Waste of time,” he muttered. “My wounds are healing and I need to go.”

  Marin pretended, he was fairly sure, not to hear him and skipped ahead in a careless, girlish way. He trailed along in bemusement as she pointed out trees and flowers and named them. To a cluster of low-growing white flowers alongsid
e the trail, she sang:

  Bunchberry, bunchberry,

  How very merry

  Your bright orange blossom berries!

  Danalong lifted a brow, still uncertain of how to accept Marin’s constant changes from wise woman to she child.

  “They all have names so we must call them by name,” Marin said. She sniffed the air. “I think the wind is suggesting rain.”

  Danalong wasn’t surprised when, shortly after, the sky darkened and the first drops thunked on his head. Marin danced in the rain, singing to flowers. Either she was a witch or a madwoman, or, worse, both. This was nonsense. There were such important things going on in the world and he was stuck on an island with a madwoman. Her enthusiasm, however, proved infectious. It tugged at him, at the true child within that he’d never been allowed to be. Danalong the messenger, who had seen so much battle and death, pulled off his stiff, tall boots and jumped into puddles, laughing when they splashed. Perhaps it was all right to be a little mad.

  Before long, the sun emerged between clouds and a delicate silver vapor drifted up from the forest floor. Marin teased and swirled it into vague designs with her hand, but stopped short.

  “Oh, Bobcat,” she said, “so good to see you.”

  A tawny spotted bobcat appeared out of the mist to rub against Marin’s leg and join their walk. Of what Danalong knew of bobcats, they tended to stay aloof of humankind.

  “Bobcat came to see me the night you arrived,” Marin said. “He’s full of stories of hunting hare and stalking squirrel. Such a boaster! I’m sure I don’t want to hear it.”

  Bobcat walked with them a ways, pausing only to pounce at a frog that hopped across the trail, then bounded off into the mist after something else they could not see.