The High King's Tomb (20 page)

When they reached room thirteen, Trudy assisted Master Welles up onto the high bed.

“Loni will come later,” she assured him. “Right now you need some rest.”

“You could stay with me,” he said, patting the bed next to him. “Both of you.”

“I’m afraid not,” Trudy said. “It would make Loni jealous, you know.”

“I s’pose you’re right,” he said, eyes half closed. “Hate to disappoint her.” He rolled to his side and plumped his pillow. With a fading voice, he murmured to Karigan, “That Trudy…” And in short order he began to snore.

“I’m sorry about this,” Trudy told Karigan, pulling off one of Master Welles’ boots, “and I appreciate your help. Silva likes to keep things orderly here, and she really would have barred him from the Rudder if he got rough or unmanageable. Zem isn’t just a gardener, you know.” She slid the second boot off and draped a blanket over the sleeping man.

Karigan didn’t know what to say.

“I realize you’re not comfortable here, or around
us,
” Trudy continued. “Particularly around me, I’m thinking.”

“Well, I—”

“Never mind,” Trudy said. She bustled to the bedside table and lowered the lamplight. “You were raised in a respectable family that loved you. You’ve no business being near a brothel.”

And her father did? Karigan ran her hand through her hair in an attempt to soothe a sudden flare of anger. She was so very tired. The revelation about her father would have been enough to contend with on its own, but the whole incident with Fergal and its aftermath positively sapped her. Not for the first time she wished Captain Mapstone were here to take over the reins, to solve her problems. She wished she’d never heard of the Golden Rudder, much less ended up as one of its guests. But here she was, and without the captain’s guidance. She had only herself to rely on. Of course, she didn’t think she’d really want the captain in on this little detail of her father’s life, though the thought of the captain giving Stevic G’ladheon a piece of her mind on the subject made Karigan smile.

Trudy straightened cushions on a window seat, Master Welles’ snoring filling the chamber. She must have taken Karigan’s silence as confirmation of her statement, for she continued, “You have a wonderful father, but mine wasn’t so kind.”

“You know my father?”

“We all do.”

Karigan believed Trudy hadn’t meant to be cruel, but the simple words were like a knife plunged into her gut. Of course her father knew
all
the ladies of the Golden Rudder.

“We don’t all know him in the way you are thinking, but he is very nice to us nevertheless. Brings us gifts and kind words.” Trudy set the last cushion in place and took up a rumpled throw, which she began to fold. “No, my father was not so kind. I ran away to hide from his beatings, but the streets were no better.” She turned to Karigan, and Karigan could see, even in the dim light, how haunted her eyes were. “There are those on the street who prey on the likes of me.”

Karigan shuddered. She knew it was true. There were those who lived in the shadows, those who “respectable” citizens like herself did not see, or
chose
not to see.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she said.

Trudy shrugged. “If not for Silva rescuing me, taking me in and feeding me, keeping me warm, I’d be dead. Or worse. I’m one of the lucky ones. Silva lets me stay even if I haven’t many clients.”

“Not many—? Oh.” Karigan guessed women were less apt to seek out company in a brothel and that Trudy cultivated a more particular clientele.

“I will admit I’m rather in demand as a partner in Knights,” Trudy said with a half smile. “I’m not bad at Triples or Black Queen either. In fact, I win an awful lot. But I also have a few devoted clients.”

“Um, oh.”

“Is that all you have to say?” There was an amused gleam in Trudy’s eye.

“Yes.” Karigan had known throughout her life, due to the clan business and its position in society, all kinds of people, including those who favored their own gender in relationships. In fact, there was a pair of gents who owned a highly regarded tailor shop in uptown Corsa who were one of the clan’s earliest and most loyal customers, eventually becoming close family friends. Growing up with visits from Joshua and Orlen—or Uncle Josh and Uncle Orry, as Karigan called them—she saw them as little different from anyone else in her life and regarded them with great affection.

Heavens, even her usually conservative aunts had raptures over their visits, delighting over gifts of flowers and scarves and candies. The two men were very disarming and entertaining, and everyone in the clan loved and respected them. Karigan realized hers might not be the prevailing attitude of Sacoridia toward such pairings, but so long as the couples lived as productive and law-abiding citizens, their presence appeared to be more or less tolerated, if not welcomed, by the larger community.

The difference with Trudy was that Karigan had never been approached—propositioned—before. Even just thinking about it caused warmth to creep into her cheeks.

As if Trudy knew how she disconcerted Karigan, she laughed softly. “You should see your expression.”

“I’d rather not, thank you.” Karigan could only guess. Did she look like a deer staring down a hunter’s arrow?

“If anything,” Trudy said, more soberly, “be glad of your life and your wonderful father. You know, it could’ve been you on the streets as easily as me had the gods allotted us different fates. But they didn’t, and here we are crossing paths anyway.”

The two left room thirteen, and paused in the corridor.

“Remember,” Trudy said, “if you want me, you know where to find me. The king’s gold is always welcome.”

As Trudy strode down the corridor, laughter trickled back to Karigan. In some wicked way, Trudy enjoyed making her squirm. That aside, the young woman had given her much to consider. She headed for her own room wondering about the gods and how different her life was from those who worked in the Golden Rudder, and it made her thankful for her father—truly thankful for the kind of man he was despite his taste for brothels, and even thankful she was a Green Rider when she could have been destined for a far less savory existence.

She did not blame the ladies for the lives they led if their backgrounds, like Trudy’s, had forced them into the “trade.” She decided the blame lay on those who used brothels. After all, without demand, there’d be no brothels. It was one of the first tenants of merchanting Karigan learned from her father.

Ironically, her father was one who helped create demand. No matter how much she loved him, she resolved to give him her opinion on the matter just as soon as she could manage it.

The next morning, Silva, Rona, and Zem stood in the courtyard between the stable and the inn for Karigan’s and Fergal’s leave-taking. Fergal said little to Karigan over breakfast, but she assumed he intended to continue the journey west with her and not return to Sacor City. As they led their horses from the stable, Silva stepped forward.

“Remember, Karigan dear, you are always welcome beneath my roof.”

“Thank you,” she replied in a subdued tone, though she knew she would never willingly find herself this close to the Golden Rudder again. But Silva had been very generous and kind, expecting nothing in return for room and board. “I…I appreciate your help.”

Silva smiled and nodded. Good-byes were exchanged and the Riders were leading their horses out of the courtyard when an upstairs gable window flung open. It was Trudy, and she waved a handkerchief at them.

“Good-bye, Karigan! Thank you for the wonderful time!” And she blew a kiss. Laughter issued from behind her and she slammed the window shut.

Karigan’s mouth dropped open. “N-no,” she started to explain. “N–nothing—nothing happened.”

Silva, Rona, and Zem simply regarded her with pleasant expressions. Fergal’s was a cock-eyed gaze of reassessment.

She’d let Trudy have her little joke. Trying to deny anything happened to the madam and her servants would only make her sound defensive. And guilty. She pulled on Condor’s reins and hurriedly led him out of the courtyard and onto the street. When Fergal caught up, he asked, “Did you—?”

“NO.”

A moment passed as he digested her response. “Well, I did.”

When she turned her glare on him, his step faltered and his cheeks turned the color of ripe tomatoes.

“You did
what?
” Fire flickered around the coolness of her words. When he opened his mouth to answer, she cut him off. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Fergal shrugged, his expression one of contentment. He started to whistle, but stopped when she glowered at him.

This was the last time, Karigan decided, anyone accompanied her on an errand. Captain Mapstone would have a complete report about Fergal on her desk when she returned. Though the whole brothel episode might be difficult to explain, especially if she included the revelation about her father. Well, she wouldn’t worry about it for now.

They led the horses to the ferry landing where Cetchum and his oarsmen awaited them.

“Good morning, sirs!” the ferry master said. “I hear ye were
real
well taken care of at the Rudder.” He gave them each knowing winks and Karigan just wanted to die.

Fergal thought it was very funny and he exchanged mock blows with Cetchum.

“You know,” Karigan mused, “I’ve been thinking that maybe we ought to tie Fergal down to the deck this time to make sure he doesn’t
fall
into the river again.”

Fergal sobered immediately.

They loaded the horses onto the ferry and shoved off. It had rained during the night and the sky was still dull, leaving the river a slate blue. The farther the oarsmen rowed them out onto the river, the more relieved Karigan became that the Golden Rudder was being left far behind.

When the ferry scraped bottom on the west bank landing, Karigan gave Cetchum four coppers and a silver. “For both crossings,” she explained, “and for your efforts to aid us.” She had thought this over hard, and when she decided that not everyone would have helped her in her rescue attempt of Fergal, she saw it was the right thing to do. If nothing else, it might encourage the ferry master to help others in need, as well.

He tipped his cap. “Thank ye, sir. Good speed to ye.”

“You’re welcome.
Ma’am.
”

Cetchum blinked in surprise and scratched his head beneath his cap. Karigan and Fergal rode off to the sound of the oarsmen laughing heartily at their ferry master.

O
ne morning, without warning, the citizens of Sacor City awoke to a strange sight before the outermost wall and gate: tents of all sizes and deep coloration had bloomed in a fallow field overnight, like the plantings of a flower garden that suddenly emerge from the soil after having lain dormant all winter. The silken material of the tents rippled in the breeze and their hues called to mind the azure of the summer sky, the new green of spring leaves, and the deep red of roses shining with morning dew.

The sun glowed more golden on the grouping of tents, more warm, more gentle; a light like that of the elder days when the world was new. As if in response, the grasses of the field grew a richer green; too green if one took into account the time of year. The leaves of nearby trees brightened with renewed autumnal fire, and the stream that cut through the field and
beneath
the large blue tent chuckled more gaily and sparkled as though it were made of gems. Birds sang in the trees and hedges like spring reborn.

How odd it was, the city’s inhabitants thought. They climbed to the battlements of the outer wall, which was usually reserved for soldiers only, to peer down on the scene. They crowded at the gate to peer out, and the more courageous among them even stepped away from the wall’s protection to take a closer look.

This was no circus or fair come to town. There were no jesters, no exotic animals, no tumblers in bright costumes. The tents did not look like the gaudy pavilions of Wayfarers, who sometimes passed by the city to deal in horses and read fortunes.

No one emerged from the tents to pronounce this or that, or to reveal their identity or purpose. No one, not even the guards at the gate, had seen the tents go up. They weren’t there one day but appeared the next, revealed with the dawn. The only clue to their identity were banners hung on poles seemingly of ivory and emblazoned with a green birch leaf against a field of stunning, snowy white. Yet the banners told the city folk little, for the device had not been seen by mortals in a thousand years.

Who were the owners of the tents, people wondered. What designs did they hold against Sacor City? Were they hiding a force of invaders come to annihilate the city? Did the tents contain magicians ready to cast evil spells on them? The populace murmured uneasily for the disruptions of the summer were still fresh in their minds.

It was the talk in every quarter of the city, these tents, their mysterious inhabitants, and what they intended. It surpassed interest in the king’s forthcoming wedding, and rumors that the Raven Mask was again prowling the fine houses at night. Why, twice this week jewels had been removed from the rooms of prominent ladies!

The guards at the gate sent word at once to the castle. Captains and colonels and generals descended from the castle, trailed by steel-wielding soldiers and accompanied by king’s messengers in green.

One by one the officers attempted to parley with the tent dwellers, but none would answer or come forth. When they tried to enter the grouping of tents, they were turned around as though repelled by some unknown force, expressions of surprise on their faces.

“Magic,” some whispered, and a pulse of fear quickened through the crowds.

Yet the tent dwellers showed no sign of aggression or evil intent—they simply showed nothing of themselves at all. Even the king came down from his castle and, surrounded by his grim, black-clad bodyguards, called out to the tent dwellers, but none replied.

The king and his guards returned up the Winding Way and he was overheard mentioning to one of his advisors, “The Elt Wood…” and the folk of Sacor City spread the rumor that the Eletians had now come forth from their mysterious realm for unknown purposes.

For four days and four nights the soldiers kept vigil over the grouping of tents. They maintained their distance, but surrounded them in a half circle, and a king’s messenger was always with them in case a tent dweller should come forth.

On the fifth day, as the novelty of the tents began to diminish and folk of the city went about their daily lives, a flap in the blue tent creased open and a hand emerged to beckon forth the king’s messenger. The Green Rider nudged her gelding forward, one hand on the hilt of her saber. This was none other than the Green Rider captain, recognizable by her red hair and the gold knot at her shoulder.

She halted her horse before the tent and sat there for some time conversing with the mysterious visitor within. No one but the captain and the one to whom she spoke knew what words passed between them, but after a short conversation, she reined her horse around and headed up the Winding Way at a swift trot.

T
he light that streamed through the windows of the king’s study was bright, but not the same, not as pure or as authentic, as that which shone upon the grouping of tents outside the city.

Laren Mapstone shook her head trying to keep her attention in the here and now. The king sat behind his desk and they were joined by advisors Colin Dovekey and Castellan Sperren, as well as by General Harborough.

“I don’t like it,” the general was saying. “They’ve hidden in their woods these last thousand years and suddenly they’re camped out on our threshold?”

“I would not say they’ve been hiding,” the king replied.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the general said, “I remember well the Eletian who helped your brother in his attempt to usurp the throne, and considering that is our experience with these folk, we cannot trust them.” General Harborough was not a tall man, but his features and body were stocky and square, his neck thick, and face scarred. He was an excellent commander and oversaw the workings of all branches of Sacoridia’s military. Laren knew it was his duty to be suspicious of anything that might threaten his king or country.

“There have been other encounters with Eletians, General,” Laren said, “including the aid they rendered to the remnants of Lady Penburn’s delegation this past summer. I do not think we can judge all Eletians by the actions of just one.” Laren could not say that she totally trusted them herself, recalling some of the interactions Karigan had with them.

“They were our allies of old,” Zachary said. “It was their king, Santanara, who united the defenders of the free lands against the might of Mornhavon and his empire. Without them, we’d be enslaved to the will of Arcosia.”

The general crossed his arms. “That was still a thousand years ago.”

“Which they remember as yesterday.”

“It seems,” Colin Dovekey said, “we finally have the opportunity we sought with Lady Penburn’s delegation: to speak with the Eletians and learn their intentions; to find out what has stirred them from the Elt Wood.”

“Skulking about our country as though they have every right,” the general grumbled.

“Our borders are guarded,” said crusty old Sperren, “but not closed.”

“Still, it does not give them leave to—”

The king raised his hand for silence. “I appreciate your words of caution, General, but they have come to parley. If they intended harm, I suspect we’d have known it by now. I have every intention of speaking with them.”

The only one who protested was the general, but the king was adamant. “Laren,” he said, “you may tell them that I accept their invitation, that I will visit with them on the appointed day, but the time will be of my choosing.”

Laren smiled. The Eletian she had spoken with had specified the day after tomorrow, but the king was showing he would not dance according to their whims by choosing the time. “Very well, sire.”

“You will not go without your guards,” the general said.

“Never fear,” Zachary replied, “I will come to no harm.”

The appointed day came with a cold misting rain that made Laren’s joints ache. Dressed in her formal uniform, she passed the morning in her office shuffling reports, awaiting the king’s word that the time had come to descend the Winding Way. But the day wore on, the bell down in the city tolling away the hours, and still the king’s word did not come. She loosened her stock and collar.

Eventually she gave up on trying to accomplish any work, and unwound her waist sash and took off her longcoat, and propped her feet on her bed and tilted her chair back, a cup of tea warming her achy hands. The pains came on her more fiercely than ever since the summer when the awakening of Mornhavon wreaked havoc with her special ability, its voice clamoring in her head, constant and unrelenting, which drove her to the brink of madness and suicide.

In the end, one who possessed her brooch two hundred years before her came to her in spirit form and helped her regain control. And after Mornhavon had been banished to the future, thanks to Karigan, the chaos his awakening caused settled down. No longer were there reports of villages vanishing or people turning to stone, and those that had were restored. All her Riders agreed their special abilities were functioning properly, as was her own.

Still, the pain in her joints hurt more than ever when she used her special ability in service to Zachary, but she spoke to no one about it, and swore Master Mender Destarion to secrecy about her need for willowbark tea. He wasn’t happy, but he provided her with what she wanted, and it gave her some measure of relief.

She supposed a lifetime of accidents and abuses to her body, and the fact she was entering her middling years, contributed to the pain. She just wasn’t able to recover from injuries as she had in her younger days. It was rare for one to remain a Green Rider as long as she had. Most either died in the course of their duties or their brooches abandoned them, releasing them from the call. The gods must have some purpose in mind for her, keeping her bound to the messenger service for so long. Even so, she tried as best as she could to prepare her Riders for the eventuality when she would not be there for them, a day when someone else must assume the role of Rider captain.

The bell tolled two hour and the light and shadows of her quarters shifted with the movement of the cloud-shrouded sun. If the king did not proceed soon to meet the Eletians, they’d be going in the dark, and she did not think that for the best.

She had not seen much beyond those tent flaps when beckoned forth to receive the word of the Eletians, nor when she delivered to them the king’s reply. A woman stood there in the shadows of the tent flaps, nothing to be revealed in the darkness beyond, and yet…

There was the sense of vast space and movement, like trees in a wood, the rustling she heard not the tent walls only, but a breeze through the boughs of limbs and leaves. She had an inexplicable feeling of an entire world beyond her sight, or maybe of a dream just on the rim of memory.

As she sat there considering it all, a knock came on the door. Laren rose and opened the door to find a Green Foot runner there, his hands clasped behind his back.

“The king says it is time to make ready, ma’am,” he said. “He plans to leave castle grounds in half an hour.”

“Please inform Lieutenant Connly as well.” Laren thanked the boy and hastened to tighten her stock. It was of the blue-green plaid like that worn by the First Rider so long ago, and so was her waistcoat. The present day Riders had adopted the colors into their uniforms to connect them to their heritage. She knotted her gold sash back into place and buckled on her swordbelt. Over her shoulder she slung the horn of the First Rider.

Before she left her quarters, she removed from a corner the ancient banner of the Green Riders, wrapped carefully about its staff, which had been presented to the First Rider by King Santanara of Eletia a millennium ago. Laren hoped these reminders of long ago friendship would not be overlooked by the Eletians.

The members of the delegation, for that’s what it was, had been handpicked by the king. He brought with him two of his most important advisors: Laren and Colin Dovekey. Castellan Sperren remained on duty in the castle to take charge if anything went awry. General Harborough, as top commander of the military, also joined them, as well as Lord-Governor Coutre to represent the interests of the provinces and that of the future queen.

Their ranks were filled out by standard bearers and armed guards, including no few Weapons who surrounded the king. All branches of the military were represented, even the navy, but the most impressive, most stunning banner of all was that borne by Connly, of the gold winged horse on a field of green rippling with life, even in the mist and against the gray sky. It was bordered with gold, and the gold embroidered with Eletian runes, which Laren had not yet had translated.

Raised highest and foremost, however, was the silver and black banner of Sacoridia, of the firebrand and crescent moon. Right behind it came Zachary’s clan banner of a white Hillander terrier on a field of heather. Slightly lower was the cormorant banner of Clan Coutre.

Folk on the Winding Way parted to the sides of the street to gawk at the grand procession making its way through the city. All members of the delegation were attired in their formal and best, the steel of weapons, buckles, and mail polished bright. The king wore black with the firebrand and crescent moon embroidered with silver threads upon his chest, a long black cloak flowing off his shoulders, and he wore the silver fillet upon his brow. Colin, too, wore black, as was his right as the chief of the Weapons. Lord Coutre was attired in the cobalt of his clan.

A shining group they were, as they rode in formation and silence down the street, the hooves of horses ringing upon the paving stones. There was scattered cheering and applause from the street, and waves of bowing citizens as the king passed by. Laren decided it was high time the citizens got to see some pageantry, which occurred too rarely during Zachary’s reign. She knew it was reticence on his part, but the populace needed to be reminded now and then of the glory of their homeland.