The High King's Tomb (21 page)

She looked fondly upon Zachary who, when he was a boy, was like a little brother to her. Now he was a man full grown who had truly come into his kingship, every inch of him, his expression grave and his chin set.

When finally the delegation exited the city and came upon the encampment, they found it as quiet and empty as before, but here the drizzle became less penetrating and the sky lighter, the colors around the tents richer.

Neff the herald rode forth and his voice rang out against the city wall: “His Excellency King Zachary, lord and clan chief of Hillander Province, and high king of the twelve provinces, from the eastern shores to the plains of the west, from the forests of the north to the islands of the southern coast; leader of the clans of Sacor and bearer of the firebrand, supplicant to the gods only, comes forth to meet with the lords of Eletia.”

Silence. Nothing moved among the tents, no beckoning hands appeared, no Eletian heralds emerged to welcome them. Was it the intention of the Eletians to mock them? Were they insulted the king refused to come at the time
they
designated? Did they hold such contempt for those other than themselves that they would ignore the presence of King Zachary and his folk?

Just as General Harborough began to whisper his disgust to the king and Colin, the flaps of all the tents parted nearly in unison. Eletians emerged bearing wreaths of flowers and laurels, and trailing garlands that were presented to members of the delegation. As Laren received a garland of lilies and roses and columbine, she marveled to see such flowers in bloom at this time of year, and so fresh and fragrant. General Harborough’s stunned expression at receiving a wreath of white flowers from a slim Eletian girl with golden hair almost made Laren laugh.

When the flowers were all handed out, a tall, slender woman emerged from the large blue tent. Her flaxen hair was pulled back into many braids, snowy feathers bound into them. Her simple dress was of ocean colors, of foamy blues and greens. She bowed slightly to the king.

“We greet you, Firebrand, great lord of the Sacor Clans,” she said in a voice that rang like music. Laren was certain this was the woman to whom she had spoken before. “If you would bring those closest to you, we may meet within.” She gestured to the blue tent.

The king chose Laren, the general, Colin, Lord Coutre, and Fastion, one of his Weapons, to accompany him. When the general argued he should take more bodyguards, Zachary said to him, “I have no need if you are there to protect me.”

General Harborough could only scratch his head, unable to come up with a response.

The chosen companions of the king followed the woman into the tent.

L
aren followed Colin and upon entering the tent, stared in wonder. It was as though they entered a forest glade. Great white-skinned birches with golden leaves arched above them, supporting the canopy, and the space felt too vast for the confines of a tent. The trees were lined up in rows like a great hall of living boughs. Tall, emerald grasses wavered as if touched by open air, and before them, the stream that passed by the city gate gurgled through the tent-glade.

The tent walls rustled, their coloring that of the sky, and the more Laren gazed, the more the walls and ceiling lost definition and did become open air, as though the king and his companions had not stepped into a tent at all, but were somehow transported to another place where it was still warm, still spring, or at least the warmer days of autumn extended.

A narrow path lay before them, winding away through the grasses and beneath the boughs of the birches.

“Be welcome,” their guide said, “and follow.”

Laren glanced at her companions and saw their expressions of surprise and awe, even on the face of the Weapon, Fastion. Her own must look much the same.

“I presume you are taking us to see someone in authority,” Zachary said, “but to whom? I should like to know before we are presented.”

The Eletian woman paused, the white feathers bound in her hair drifting about her head. Laren thought she detected surprise, as though the Eletian expected complete compliance from her guests and no questions whatsoever.

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “You will meet one among us that your folk would call a prince. We name him Ari-matiel, for he is Jametari, our northern star, Santanara’s son, and my brother.”

Laren exchanged a significant glance with Zachary.

“Perhaps you have heard his name before,” the Eletian said.

“Yes,” Laren replied. “He held one of my Riders prisoner.”

Now the Eletian looked annoyed, though she tried to conceal it. “The Galadheon. She was no prisoner.”

“That’s not the way it sounded to me,” Laren said.

General Harborough flicked his gaze from the Eletian to Laren. “I thought you said these people were to be trusted.”

“I never said that,” Laren replied. “I believed, however, and still do, that they would not dare harm us.”

“We intend you no harm,” the Eletian said, “nor did we come so far to quarrel over an insignificant encounter of this summer.”

Before Laren could protest, Zachary said, “To you, perhaps, it was insignificant. To us, it was not, and you would do well to remember that in dealings with my people. But we agree we did not come here to quarrel. Please lead on.”

The Eletian hesitated, a look of displeasure on her face, but said no more. She turned and guided them into the verdant depths of the tent. Laren took a deep breath, thinking that Karigan’s description of some Eletians and their haughtiness was not far off the mark.

They followed the meandering path through the birch grove, crossing the stream using strategically-placed stones that did not wobble when stepped on. The path wound on longer than seemed possible, as if the tent had no end, but Laren could not swear they were still in a tent.

“How can this be?” General Harborough murmured, glancing up at the roof of entwined tree boughs.

Laren did not provide an answer, for she had none, though she did know that to Eletians, magic was second nature, or rather it was their nature, and perhaps this tentless tent was an expression of it. Without magic, the Eletians would fade from the world. This was one of the bits of information Karigan had gleaned from her “insignificant encounter” with Prince Jametari this past summer.

Laren glanced at her other companions. Zachary looked intrigued, and maybe even delighted, by his surroundings, and she saw no fear in him. Lord Coutre was grim with his heavy white brows drawn over dark eyes. If Laren could judge his thoughts, it was that he refused to be deceived by the Eletians. He was as suspicious of their motives as General Harborough.

Colin’s expression was neutral, though his gaze darted about as if expecting some assailant to leap out from behind trees. His years as a Weapon made such habits die hard. Fastion’s demeanor was much the same—edgy and alert.

Eventually they halted before a group of Eletians standing within a semicircle of birches, and here the stream trickled again into the tent—or wherever they were, and beyond the birches and out of their ken.

The Eletians were simply clothed in the hues of nature, and none wore weapons or armor. Laren did not doubt that despite the seeming lack of armament, the king’s group was keenly watched by those who would defend their prince. But if there were watchers, they were well concealed.

One very like their guide in stature and coloring stepped forward, and this Laren took to be the prince, brother to their guide. He wore startling white, a long over-tunic belted with silver and green gems, and embroidered white on white with a leaf design. He wore loose white trousers long enough to partly cover his sandaled feet.

“Welcome,” he told them. “I am Jametari.”

Zachary stepped forward, his posture erect, and held out his hand in greeting, which Jametari clasped. “You and your people are welcome in Sacoridia.” General Harborough did not appear pleased by his words.

Jametari nodded graciously, then to his servants he said, “Seating for our guests.”

The Eletians brought each of the king’s company chairs made of woven tree boughs. Laren didn’t think they could possibly be comfortable, but to her surprise, hers was. The only one who refused a chair was Fastion, who stood in a watchful attitude behind the king.

Jametari sat facing them while the other Eletians receded into the shadows of the trees. Refreshments were brought forth, drinks and golden cakes that melted like honey and cream on the tongue. The drink was clear and cold with the distant tang of dew-laden berries. It refreshed Laren, lifted her cares and awakened her. She felt it to the roots of her hair, and all the aches and pains that had bothered her throughout the day subsided. Whatever the drink was, it was more efficacious than willowbark tea. If she had a chance, she would find out what it was.

Zachary and Jametari made light talk over their refreshments, sizing up one another. Zachary was asking their host about his travels.

“We followed ancient paths,” Jametari said. “Paths long ago frequently traveled by my folk as they journeyed across the lands. Time has changed the landscape, but the paths recall us.”

Any other time, and uttered by anyone else, such a statement would sound absurd.

“And many years,” he continued, “has it been since last my folk came willingly among the Sacoridum. Once we dwelled in all these lands before the coming of men. Alas, it is a time even before my reckoning, but ever smaller has our territory grown as a result.”

“I hope you have not come all this way,” Zachary said, “to seek recompense for wrongs committed generations upon generations ago by forgotten ancestors.”

“No, we have not, though there are Eletians who have not forgotten.”

His words hung there between them, between mortals whose time on Earth was but the blinking of an eye and those who lived eternal lives.

“We also do not forget the alliance of men and Eletians during the Cataclysm,” Jametari said, and then glancing at Laren, he added, “and it seems you have not either, for the banner of the Green Riders you bear was woven by the hands of Eletians and presented to Liliedhe Ambriodhe on the eve of the decisive battle. It is threaded with words of justice and victory, and of friendship between our peoples. In common purpose, our peoples defeated darkness and unjust conquest.”

“We do not forget,” Zachary said, “especially in these days when darkness has returned.”

“And it has returned, though
Kanmorhan Vane
sleeps for the moment,” Jametari said, using the Eletian name for Blackveil Forest. “When it awakens again, it will be with vengeance at its heart. I fear the D’Yer Wall will not hold against the onslaught.”

Zachary shifted in his chair. “The old ways of making the wall strong are lost, but we are attempting to relearn them.”

“There may not be the time.”

“We do not know how much time we have.”

The golden leaves stirred above and the boughs of the birches creaked. Laren thought she saw a ripple in the tent-sky. The stream gurgled unabated and it felt like ages passed. Zachary and Jametari regarded one another like lords carved in stone carrying on some mental conversation.

“You sent a delegation northward,” Jametari said, “to seek us out, to know our mind, to find out if the old alliance still holds true. That delegation failed, ambushed during its journey. And now I have come forth in turn, to take the measure of this king and his people, to see for myself the strength or lack of foundation for an alliance.”

“If you are an enemy of the darkness to the south,” Zachary said, “then I would say a rekindling of the alliance sounds promising.”

“Mornhavon is our mutual enemy. His conquering of Argenthyne and the depredations committed against our people are evils that shall never be forgotten. Now that the wall is failing and Mornhavon awakened from his banishment, I must decide what is the best course for my people.”

Laren noticed he completely circumvented a commitment to an alliance. To take the measure of king and country? What would it mean if he did not care for what he saw and refused to reestablish the alliance? Then she remembered Karigan telling her there were factions of Eletians who wanted to see the wall fail and release all the wild magic pent up in Blackveil, whether or not it was tainted by Mornhavon. Some Eletians felt it would return raw magic to the world.

Laren could only shake her head in wonder that they would turn their backs on an entire people in that way and wish them ill. It was no better than the conquest of Mornhavon the Black. How prevalent was that feeling among the Eletians? How deep did their bitterness delve? They had all of eternity for it to stew.

Zachary laughed. Everyone, both Sacoridians and Eletians alike, stared at him in astonishment.

“And so you will judge our worthiness,” he said. “My worthiness in my own realm. Or perhaps you wish to delay, for the politics of your court are attempting to sway you one way or another. Trees will bend to and fro,” and he gestured at the birches, “but in a storm, they can snap.”

He stood then, tall and regal, and Laren and the other Sacoridians stood in unison in his wake. “Judge us as you will, prince of Eletia, but I’ve no time to play your games. The time to act is now, and we have been acting. Not spying, not playing games, not waiting. While you may be content for the tide to rise to crisis point, I am not. Whether you are with us or against us, we of Sacoridia will forge ahead as we always have. But know this, if in your self-interest you choose to do nothing at all, then you are against us, and we shall consider you our enemy in league with the powers of Blackveil.”

Stunned silence met the king’s speech, but he did not wait for a reaction. “I will take leave of you now.” He nodded toward Jametari, and without pausing or waiting for an escort, he turned on his heel and headed back through the grove. His companions followed, and Laren brought up the rear. Glancing back at the prince and his people, she found they remained unmoved, still in shock.

E
stora flew from the chamber and slammed the door shut behind her before any of her cousins, aunts, sisters, ladies, or more important, her mother, could protest or follow her out. She glanced about the corridor only to discover one surprised servant who curtsied and scurried away. She even managed to leave her Weapon behind and, to her dismay, close a swath of her skirts in the door.

She cracked the door open and yanked them out. A deafening chatter poured from the room; the women oohing and aahing over materials merchants had brought up from the city and designs for the wedding gown drawn by tailors. A baker had brought samples of cake and other dainties, and vintners bottles of their best wines. The ladies, it seemed, had tested enough of the wines to not even note her departure, or care, and the volume of their voices rose to fevered pitches as swatches of cloth and frills flew through the air. She saw her poor Weapon attempting to make his way across the room through the melee, his expression grimmer than usual, especially when some lace was flung into his face.

Estora closed the door again, shutting away the clamor. If they enjoyed all the wedding planning on her behalf, she would leave them to it. If they made any decisions that displeased her, she could simply command that changes be made and no one would dare question her. She was to be queen, after all, wasn’t she? She could request what she wanted, and when she wanted it.

She daydreamed that on the eve of the wedding she decided she didn’t like the gown and demanded it be remade. The tailor would have no choice but to comply. It could mean his head! Not that Zachary would allow such a punishment, of course, and not that she would actually consider it, but she was only now beginning to recognize the power she was marrying into; the power she could wield over others.

She emitted a tiny little hiccup and covered her mouth and blushed though no one was there to witness it.

I’ve had a little too much wine as well.