The High King's Tomb (11 page)

A
fter Karigan and Fergal passed through the outermost city gate, Karigan reined in Condor and turned in her saddle to look behind her. While the nearness of the city wall blocked much of her view, the castle stood high enough on its hill, a small mountain really, that she had no trouble seeing its facade of bright stone against the morning sky. Tall and impregnable it stood, built by the same stonemasons who created the D’Yer Wall. The shingled roofs of the city stood gathered beneath its shadow before disappearing behind the wall.

“Be well,” she whispered, unsure of whom she addressed. The city would take care of itself, she knew, and very suddenly she felt bereft, exiled from her friends. Now outside the gates, she might as well be a hundred miles from them.

She sighed and turned away from the city only to find Fergal watching her expectantly. Being shouted at by the guards at the castle gates had not diminished his enthusiasm in the least. Karigan had informed him that not only did one not charge one’s horse across castle grounds, but there was generally no reason to rush through town, especially with all the traffic. She refused to let him trot, more out of perversity than anything else, so he challenged her order by urging Sunny into a fast walk, constantly nosing her ahead of Condor.

Sunny now had an annoyed look in her eye and shifted her stance with a definitive swish of her tail. She was probably wondering what she had done to deserve this young wiggly creature on her back instead of a highly trained cavalryman. If Fergal kept kicking her and yanking on the reins, he might get himself bucked off. The thought did not dismay Karigan in the least.

Carts rumbled around them toward the city bearing goods for market day. Farmers carried the last of the season’s harvests, including whole cartloads of bright orange pumpkins, ripe apples, and milled grain.

“You know,” Karigan said, watching another cart roll by, this one full of wine casks, “if you hadn’t been so eager to hurry out of the city, I could have shown you some shortcuts that would have gotten us here much sooner.”

The Winding Way, the main thoroughfare through Sacor City, roped around the city in lazy turns from the gates all the way up to the castle, intended by the engineers to foil the progress of an invading army. The Riders, and most city dwellers, knew how to cut down travel time by using side streets and alleys. While invaders could potentially use those same side streets, their narrowness would cause an entire army to jam up.

“Oh,” was all Fergal said.

Karigan pursed her lips. They were not off to a good start. For some reason Fergal just rubbed her the wrong way. Maybe she resented his eagerness, or maybe she just wasn’t meant to mentor new Riders. This was the sort of thing Ty was good at, not her.

She took a deep breath. “This is the Kingway,” she said, indicating the road ahead, “and we’ll follow it all the way to Selium.”

“Wahoo!”
Fergal cried, and he and Sunny were off in a cloud of dust.

Karigan rolled her eyes and decided she would sit and wait until he realized she hadn’t followed him.

It was quite a while before Fergal realized he was alone, for the bells in the city rang off two cycles before he returned at a trot, Sunny’s neck all lathered. Karigan sat beside the road chewing on a stalk of grass, her back against a maple and her legs stretched out before her. She had loosened Condor’s girth and replaced his bridle with a halter so he could graze.

Fergal’s cheeks were flushed, but that could have been from the exertion of the ride and not contrition.

“Where were you?” he sputtered.

No, not contrition.

“Why weren’t you with me?” he demanded. “I had to come all the way back.”

Karigan pushed herself up from the ground. “Dismount.”

“What?”

“Dismount,” she said evenly, “and that’s an order.”

Perplexed, Fergal obeyed.

“Loosen Sunny’s girth.”

“But—”

“That’s an order, too.”

He complied, but still did not understand. “Why?”

“All I can figure is that you’ve ignored everything Horse-master Riggs has tried to teach you,” Karigan said. “Being a messenger isn’t about galloping off into the horizon. Yes, it’s about the efficient delivery of the king’s messages, but not at the expense of your steed. You’ve already spent Sunny. Look at the lather on her neck! Now you must walk her to cool her off.”

“But—”

“If you can’t follow basic orders, orders that have been repeated to you, and if you can’t put to use what you’ve learned, then I’ll have no choice but to escort you back to the castle where you can explain yourself to Captain Mapstone. Perhaps you will even have to go before the king to tell him why his messages were delayed.”

Fergal blanched. “But I thought—”

“Doesn’t matter what you thought.” Karigan almost hoped he gave her reason to return him to the castle. “Your horse is your lifeline, not just a…a slave to bear you from here to there. As a messenger, you’ve entered into a partnership with your horse, and first consideration must go to your mount.”

“But she’s not a real messenger horse—”

Karigan looked from Fergal to Sunny, and back, and restrained an impulse to swat the lad. “She’s carrying a messenger, isn’t she? Looks like a messenger horse to me.”

“But—”

Karigan guessed he had heard a good deal about how special Rider horses were, how greathearted they were, and of the special bonds that developed between Rider and horse. He clearly saw Sunny as something inferior. She stepped over to Sunny and rubbed her above the eye. The mare leaned into Karigan’s strokes.

“No, Sunny did not start out life as a Rider horse,” Karigan said, “but she is highly trained, and gave her heart to her work, as I know she will on this errand if you treat her well. She’s seen battle, and is seasoned and reliable. You can’t ask for much better than that. Respect your horse, and she will respect you.”

For once Fergal had the sense to keep his mouth shut, but he looked miffed.

“Foolishly setting off at a gallop for no reason will exhaust your horse sooner, maybe make her pull up lame, and shorten your day’s travel. How does that help you serve your king?”

Fergal looked down at his feet. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Don’t apologize to me,” Karigan said. “Apologize to Sunny.”

She could see Fergal’s reluctance, but he patted the mare on the neck, though half-heartedly.

“Now, shall we return to Captain Mapstone, or are you ready to go about this the right way?” she asked.

“You would actually do that? I mean, make me go back?”

“Yes. You’re compromising the errand.”

Fergal shifted his eyes nervously and Karigan sensed the shame he’d feel in returning. “I’ll do things…right. I swear.”

Karigan suppressed a sigh. She wasn’t sure her point had been driven home, but she was stuck with him for the time being. “All right, now we walk.” She took Condor’s lead rope and started strolling down the Kingway. Fergal just stood in place, staring after her, mouth open as if to protest, but at Karigan’s stern look, he drew Sunny’s reins over her head and fell in behind.

As Karigan followed the road through the small collection of cots a short distance outside the city gates, she wished she had known more about Fergal before setting out. The glimpses she’d had of him in the castle were of an eager boy ready to please. What she saw now was one with a rebellious streak she didn’t understand. Some of it was the excitement of being on his first errand, and some of it could just be his age. She hoped he’d prove more sensible for the duration of their journey.

A journey barely begun.
She gave a preoccupied wave to some of the farmers at work in their fields. Not that she had always made sensible decisions in her own life. One of those decisions landed her in the messenger service. That and the call, of course. She strode on with a chuckle.

For the remainder of the day, Fergal was in a sullen mood, speaking little and riding behind her. Karigan put his behavior down to adolescence and shrugged it off. If he didn’t want to talk, that was just fine with her. She would enjoy traveling in the company of her own thoughts.

She paced their ride with long stretches of walking interspersed with trotting. Fergal did not attempt any more gallops, not even a canter. Maybe his lessons with Riggs, and her reprimand, had finally sunk in. If they were to make any headway, maintaining the endurance of their horses was of the utmost importance.

Fortunately, the Kingway was an easy ride, a well-maintained road of level stretches and gentle rises. Trees shaded it, and they passed through villages where they watered the horses in public troughs. Villagers politely requested the latest news from the city, mostly about the king’s betrothal, much to Karigan’s chagrin. The brief rests also gave the Riders a chance to stretch and stamp out their stiff legs. If the prolonged riding was causing Fergal discomfort, he did not complain.

Villages and woodlands were interspersed with rolling farmland bordered by stone fence lines. Most of the crops had been hauled in by now and many activities centered around winter preparations: a pair of boys cutting through logs with a cross cut saw, their father splitting the wood with his ax while girls stacked the firewood in a neat pile near their little cot.

At another farm with many apple trees, children jostled the red fruit from the upper branches for their mother who caught them in her apron. Upon seeing the Riders, the farmwife and children presented them and the horses with some delicious samples.

Fergal’s sullen demeanor softened with the gift, and the children chattered at him in their excitement to see a real Green Rider. He gave them rides on Sunny, while Karigan traded predictions with the farmwife about the winter to come.

Farther on, others tended livestock and repaired shingles on roofs while a lucky hunter rumbled by with a stag in his cart. Squirrels scolded the Riders from the branches above and it seemed at times they purposely dropped spruce cones on their heads.

Karigan liked autumn, she decided, while crunching a tart apple. The air was sharp and fresh, not too warm and not too cold, and the sky clear. The deciduous trees of the countryside were afire with bright yellows, oranges, and reds, contrasting with the deep greens of spruce and pine. Blueberry bushes, now past their fruit-bearing season, were clumps of crimson along the road’s edges. The horses’ hoof falls were softened by rusty pine needles and colorful leaves matting the road.

Dusk was settling in by the time they reached the village of Deering. Despite Fergal’s transgressions of the morning, they made acceptable time. The village was carved out of the forest, this the southern fringe of the mighty Green Cloak. Mostly it served wayfarers and woodsmen with a mercantile, a farrier’s forge, a pair of inns, a wheelwright’s shop, and a humble chapel of the moon made of stone.

“We usually stay at the Hawk’s Tail,” Karigan said. The other inn, the Red Pony, was a little rougher, primarily serving woodsmen, while the Hawk’s Tail received more custom from wayfarers.

The Hawk’s Tail was a homely house with a sign hanging over the front door featuring a red-tailed hawk with open beak. Lanterns hanging outside on posts, and lamps lit within, made a cheery welcome that was augmented by the mixed scents of good things cooking and baking inside.

“Why don’t you check if they have rooms for us,” Karigan told Fergal, “and then you can meet me in the stables.”

Fergal’s eyes widened in surprise that she would allow him such a responsibility. She dug into her message satchel and passed him a seal bearing the winged horse insignia of the messenger service. Riders didn’t carry enough currency to pay for every lodging or each supply purchased, but instead sealed documents that the proprietors could present at tax time for redemption.

Fergal glanced at the seal in his hand, then clenched his fingers around it. He dismounted and clambered up the inn’s front steps and went inside. Karigan led both horses behind the inn and into the stable’s courtyard. A stablehand pointed out a couple stalls she could use. First she untacked the horses, and then started rubbing down Condor with her currycomb. He groaned with pleasure and leaned into her circular strokes. Soon the grime worked out of his hide and the sweat marks left by his saddle disappeared. She had kept their pace at a walk for the last mile or so, so they wouldn’t be overwarm when they reached the inn.

Next she checked up and down Condor’s legs, examining him for any signs of swelling or lameness. None. Then she picked out his hooves and inspected them. All was well, and she let him loose into the paddock for a good roll.

She turned to Sunny who gazed expectantly at her. Where was Fergal? He should have been out by now to tend his horse.

Karigan made a disparaging sound and started caring for Sunny as she had Condor. Once she released the mare into the paddock and instructed the stablehand on their feeding, she burdened herself with both her saddlebags and Fergal’s and entered the inn.

The innkeeper, Jolly Miles, greeted her courteously and said, “Your lad is in the common room.”

By now fuming, she clattered into the common room. A friendly fire crackled in a big stone hearth. Some merchants sat near it, smoking pipes and playing at Knights. Fergal sat at another table with a man and was sawing away at a hunk of bread to dip in the gravy slathered over his mutton and potatoes. He looked to be on his second tankard of ale.