The High King's Tomb (17 page)

Karigan was about to comment when there was a loud splash and a strangled cry. To her horror, Fergal no longer stood at the rail. He no longer stood on the ferry at all.

E
veryone froze. The only sound was the water lapping against the ferry.

“Fergal!” Karigan cried and she dashed to the rail.

At first she saw nothing, heard nothing, then there was another splash and his head bobbed to the surface. He flailed his arms, the current sweeping him down river.

“Keep with him, lads,” the ferry master ordered the oarsmen, and he abandoned the tiller to gather a line to toss to Fergal.

“Fergal!” Karigan cried again. “Tread water—hang on!” But Fergal’s efforts to stay afloat foundered. He did not know how to swim. Before the ferry master could toss his line, Fergal sank under and did not reappear.

For five heartbeats Karigan hesitated, staring in horror at the bubbles that rose to the surface. She then glanced at the ferry master and oarsmen who seemed unable to move.

Without a second thought, she threw off her message satchel and coat, then unbuckled her swordbelt. It clattered to the deck.

The ferry master’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Ye can’ go in there, sir, it’s cold! Ye’ll drown!”

She tore off her boots, ducked under the port rail, and jumped into the river. At first she felt nothing but a space of shock. Then the cold grabbed her.

When Karigan was little, her father teased her that she had the hide of a seal because she loved to play in the ocean. Even at the height of summer, Sacoridia’s coastal waters were frigid, fed by rivers, including the Grandgent, that were born of the northern ice. If she waded in the shallows for more than a few seconds, her toes would go numb, then her feet and ankles, making her legs ache all the way up to her knees.

She’d made a game of it, charging in and out of the waves, giggling madly, challenging herself to go deeper and for longer. Sometimes she endured the bitter currents long enough to swim out to a ledge at the mouth of the cove on which cormorants liked to perch and spread their wings.

Karigan had an idea of what she faced when she plunged into the brilliant waters of the Grandgent, but knowing could not fully prepare her. The cold stole her breath. It seeped through her clothes, through flesh, and gnawed into her bones, sapping her inner warmth. Her toes and fingers grew numb. She had not the hide of a seal, nor was this some childhood game of summer days long past. She had only minutes to find Fergal or succumb to the river herself. She took a last glance at the ferry, and saw that the oarsmen were holding it steady, allowing the craft to drift with her and the current. They watched her in disbelief, but would not abandon her.

She took a deep breath and dove beneath the surface. It was a dark world that swallowed her. The cold pressed against her head like a vise and cut off her hearing. It squeezed her lungs and almost forced the air from her cheeks. From the lighter levels of blue near the surface, she kicked into deeper, darker blue, searching in desperation for Fergal. She knew the currents were carrying her swiftly along, and it frightened her.

Sunlight penetrated through bluish-green layers to the river bottom, where she found an otherworldly landscape littered with boulders the size of wagons, and huge logs lying among them that had sunk during river drives. Weeds grew up between the rocks, and she caught sight of a cart wheel and broken jug.

She despaired of finding Fergal in the rocky, shadowy river and had no breath left in her. She swam back up to the surface, the relative warmth of the air stinging her face. The ferry was still with her, and the men shouted to her, but her ears rang so fiercely she could not hear them. The cold had already exhausted much of her strength and her extremities were without feeling, but she couldn’t give up if there was a chance she could save Fergal. She plunged again into the river’s depths.

This time another unnatural shape appeared among the boulders, a river cog gouged on its port side, debris spilled around it, the shapes of barrels and bottles and jars all coated with a fine silt. In the blue-green light, the cog’s tattered sails flowed in the currents with ghostly gestures. Karigan drifted over the figurehead of a fair lady holding a bouquet of flowers, her expression eerily undismayed by her watery grave.

The current drew Karigan on and she thrust upward to avoid becoming ensnared in the sails and rigging, and then she saw him. He was trapped in the rigging, his arms and legs splayed out like a dead man. She swam toward him, the lines groping for her like tentacles. If she got caught in them, they were both dead.

She pushed the ropes away as she swam, aware of darkness flooding the edges of her vision, aware of expending her last breaths, and of feeling weary. So very weary. When she reached Fergal, she found the rigging lashed around his torso and one of his legs. He showed no signs of life. Karigan tugged at the ropes that bound him but they held fast, unwilling to give up their prey.

She drew his longknife. The darkness clouded into her vision as she sawed into the thick rope. The knife was well-honed, something she now came to expect of Fergal, and it slashed through the rigging that anchored him. She dropped the knife and it drifted with silvery flashes toward the wreck.

She grabbed Fergal’s collar and thrust upward for the surface. She gasped when her head emerged from the water and she sucked in air. The ferry was not far off and the oarsmen threw her the line. When her numb fingers were finally able to grip it, they drew her in as she tried to keep Fergal’s head above water.

When at last they hauled her from the grasp of the river, she fell to the ferry’s deck gagging, and for a while after that, she knew nothing more.

K
arigan sat by the kitchen hearth of the Golden Rudder shivering uncontrollably even though the cook stoked the fire to inferno proportions to help thaw her out. The ferry master claimed the inn was the best Rivertown had to offer, though she never heard any of her fellow Riders mention it. While it was hard to judge anything one way or another in her current condition, the staff was kindly and attentive. The innkeeper, Silva Early, had helped her peel off her sodden uniform right there in the kitchen and supplied her with a warm, dry flannel nightgown. Now Silva poured more warm water into the basin in which Karigan soaked her feet and thrust a mug of broth into her hands. Her hands shook so violently she almost spilled it.

“Rona is preparing a room for you,” Silva said, “but in the meantime, you must drink up.”

Karigan tried to smile, but it only made her teeth clack spasmodically. Her hostess was dressed in silks that would impress her merchant father, and her hair was coiled upon her head in a way that would have taken Karigan hours to fashion, even with Tegan’s help. Soft colors applied to her face accentuated her eyes, cheekbones, and lips. It was everything Karigan admired about those fashionable women of highborn status she used to see promenading about the exclusive shopping districts of Corsa, and all she failed to be herself. It wasn’t just a matter of dressing the part, she knew, but a matter of demeanor. Silva exuded soft, unharried elegance not typical of an innkeeper. For some reason, she made Karigan think of her mother.

As for Fergal, the ferry master told Karigan they’d pumped about half the river out of him and got him breathing again, and when they took him to the mender’s house, the other half came gushing out, “With all the fishes, too.” It would take the night to see how well Fergal fared.

“I’m g–g–going to k–k–kill him,” Karigan said through chattering teeth.

“My dear,” Silva said, “if you wished him dead, you could have just left him in the river.” She glided away, a rich but not unpleasant perfume lingering in the air behind her.

Still, if Fergal survived the night, Karigan was tempted to throttle him for putting her through this—not only because she had to risk her own life to save him and as a result felt bloody awful, but because of the anguish he caused her. She had visions of returning to Sacor City with his corpse swathed in winding cloths and lashed across Sunny’s back. Even if he tried her patience at times, she had to admit she cared. One thing was for certain: she was going to get to the bottom of the incident. No one saw him fall into the river, and until he was well enough, she would not know how it happened. She wanted an explanation, and by the gods, it had better be a good one.

Meanwhile, all she could do was sip the broth. It helped quell the inner cold that made her bones ache, and when she started to sag in her chair and the bustle of the kitchen became a distant thing, Silva gently pried the mug from her hands.

“Nia certainly watched over you this day,” she said in a soft voice.

“The room is ready,” someone else announced from behind.

“Good. Just in time, I’m thinking. Thank you, Rona. I believe we shall need help getting her upstairs. Could you please fetch Zem?”

Karigan must have drifted off after Silva’s order, for a broad-shouldered man stood before her when he hadn’t been there just a moment ago. He smelled of soil and decaying autumn leaves.

“Karigan, dear,” Silva said, “this is Zem, the inn’s gardener. He’s going to assist you to your room. I’ll be right behind him.”

“I don’t need help,” Karigan said. But she couldn’t seem to rise by herself, and when Zem got her upright, she found she did need his help to remain standing.

They progressed slowly from the kitchen to a foyer illuminated by a crystal chandelier that reminded her of ice. She shuddered. The sounds of men and women engaged in sociable conversation drifted out of an adjoining parlor. Zem, with his arm around her to support her, directed her toward a daunting staircase. Step by step they made the ascent till they reached the top landing.

“Room six,” Silva instructed from behind.

Karigan’s toes curled in the plush carpeting as Zem guided her along the corridor. They passed numbered doors, all closed, but through which trickled the laughter of women and the voices of men.

Karigan was almost beyond recall when Zem helped her into a bedroom with a blazing fire in the hearth. It contained a stately, canopied bed, and when she sank into the down mattress, Silva hurried to pull the covers over her. This was indeed a luxurious inn, Karigan thought, and she wondered just how much it was going to cost the king for her to stay here.

“Is she a new girl?” asked a feminine voice in the corridor.

“No, dear,” Silva said. “A guest.”

“Oh? One of Trudy’s then? Shouldn’t someone tell her?”

“No, dear,” Silva said more firmly. “This one requires no company.”

“Pity, Trudy always likes the ones in uniform.”

Karigan’s foggy brain could not comprehend the conversation. The bed was blissfully soft, and warmed with river-rounded stones taken from the hearth, wrapped, and placed under the covers with her. The last thing she remembered was Silva looking down at her with a smile and saying, “Rest well, dear.”

D
reams plagued Karigan. She dreamed of descending through the blackened depths of the river, descending like a rock, and the harder she tried to swim, the faster she sank. And there, in the gloom, she saw the sunken river cog. The figurehead watched her as she drifted near, though this was not the wooden figure she’d seen adorning the prow of the real wreck but Lady Estora.

The garden is too cold,
she said.
I want it to be summer again.

“I cannot be your friend,” Karigan tried to say, but only bubbles rushed from her mouth.

We are not who we must be.

Then slowly, Estora’s body stiffened and took on the grainy texture of wood. The illusion of flesh was no more than paint, her expression one of endless sorrow. She held a bouquet of dead flowers.

The current carried Karigan away over the wreck and again the rigging reached out for her like a live thing. She found Fergal trapped in the ropes, but realized it was not Fergal at all, but King Zachary, his face a sickly greenish-white, a drowned corpse with its eyes wide open.

“No!” Karigan cried, but again, only bubbles exploded from her mouth.

Do not grieve for me,
he said with blue lips.

Then the scene changed to night dark instead of river dark. Stars shone in the sky high above and she was surrounded by forest, and he was there. No longer a corpse, he pulled her to him, into his warm arms, warm body, his skin soft as velvet…

I want it to be summer again,
he murmured into her neck.

She wanted to say, “Me, too,” but his mouth covered hers, and there was only his warmth around her, and within her.

K
arigan awoke with a groan and found herself clutching her pillow. She willed the dream to be real, but it was not. Overwarm, she released the pillow and pushed back the comforter. It was then she realized she was not alone.

“Shhh,” said a female voice in the dusky dark. “We heard you cry out.”

As Karigan’s eyes adjusted, she made out a slender woman standing at the foot of her bed who was wearing a filmy shift that revealed her curves in silhouette. In the doorway, two others peered in, the lamplight of the corridor gleaming in their eyes.

“Who are you?” Karigan demanded, hauling the comforter back up to her chin.

“Trudy. I work here.” She sat beside Karigan on the edge of her bed. “Are you well?”