The High King's Tomb (37 page)

T
hey rode out of a thicket to the top of a ridge. The land rolled away from them, open to the sky and the sharpness of stars. Below them, golden light spilled from the windows of a long, low building. There were other buildings near the main one, but the dark claimed their shape and size. The breeze shifted and Karigan smelled wood smoke.

“I think we’ve found Damian Frost’s place,” Karigan said.

Though Karigan did not completely give Condor his head, she allowed him to canter down the ridge, tail swishing all the way. When they arrived at the front porch of the place, Karigan had to check Condor so he didn’t climb right up the steps onto it and through the door. He pranced and bucked at the command.

“Settle,” she told him.

He shook his head, rattling the reins in rebellion.

Before she could dismount, the door swung open and a wiry fellow stood there silhouetted by the lamplight.

“It’s about time,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you for weeks now.”

Before Karigan could ask how he knew, or say anything for that matter, Condor launched up onto the front porch, taking her by complete surprise. She did not duck in time and smacked her head on the eave of the low, overhanging roof. She spilled off Condor’s back, over his rump, and hit the ground.

There were only the stars above, like a great spangled black quilt over her. Her body took its time to sort out the pain, the worst of which was the growing throb above the bridge of her nose.

Suddenly the night sky was framed by heads—two human, two horse. Fergal and Sunny stood to one side of her, and the wiry fellow and Condor on the other. Actually, Condor stood behind the man, peering at her around his shoulder. His ears wilted as if in apology.

“Chicken,” she said.

“What’s she saying, lad?” the man asked Fergal.

“She called you a chick—”

“I was addressing the horse,” Karigan said. “The one hiding behind you.”

The man reached over his shoulder and patted Condor’s neck. “Aye, a little overexcited. S’posed to protect his Rider, not dump her.”

Condor’s ears wilted even more.

“He sometimes has a mind of his own.”

“Aye.”

Karigan ungloved her right hand and reached up. “I’m Karigan G’ladheon, and my companion is Fergal Duff. May I presume you are Damian Frost?”

The wiry man bent to his knee and grasped her hand to shake it. His hand felt rough and gnarly, like old tree roots, and his grip was firm. “I am Damian. Welcome, Riders.” He reached across Karigan to shake Fergal’s hand.

“You have any broken bones, lass?” Damian asked.

Karigan felt more undignified sprawled on her back than hurt, though she was sure that would change when her body realized what happened.

“I don’t think so,” she said. She rose gingerly to her elbows. Her head throbbed anew and her neck felt the strain. Tomorrow she’d really be in for it.

Damian and Fergal helped Karigan rise to her feet, the world tilting, and she patted dust off her trousers and adjusted her swordbelt to conceal her unsteadiness. Condor still hid behind Damian.

“Gus! Jericho!” Damian hollered into the house, making both Karigan and Fergal jump.

Two hulking youths emerged from the house. “My sons,” Damian said, jerking his thumb in their direction. They dwarfed their father. “Lads, take these horses out back and settle them in for the night.”

“Aye, Pop.”

Condor and Sunny were led away and Damian said, “Lady is just putting supper away, but I ’spect there is enough left over to warm two Rider bellies. Hungry?”

“Yes, sir!” Fergal said.

Damian laughed and slapped him on the back. “Still growing, aren’t you, lad? Just like my boys, the young giants they be.” He sprang onto the porch and bellowed, “Lady, my lady, we’ve got us some hungry guests!”

Fergal followed him eagerly into the house, Karigan coming along more slowly, trying to make her limbs work again, but each step sent a jolt of pain up between her shoulder blades and through her neck.

“The horse is dog meat,” she muttered.

Fergal glanced back at her in surprise. She scowled at him.

When she entered the Frost house, however, it was difficult to feel dark. Lamps bathed the walls and heavy timber rafters in a warm glow. The cooking area was to their immediate right, dominated by a long farm table that was lined with benches. The wood was smoothed and darkened by the touch of many hands over the years. A bowl of apples sat in the middle.

Beyond the table was the cooking hearth, counters, and cupboards. Dried herbs and flowers hung from the rafters by the thousands. As dazed as Karigan was, it was like looking at an upside down garden.

At the center of it all bearing a ladle was a woman attired in a homespun dress of vibrant blue with intricate designs of horses sewn onto it with crimson thread. As fine as the workmanship was, Karigan was drawn to the woman’s pure white hair and eyes of ice blue.

Damian Frost danced around her and gave her a twirl. “Lady, my lady, the Riders have come, on Condor and a war horse all dapple and gray.”

Lady Frost—Lady? Was her name really Lady, or were they faced with some unknown noble living the rustic life?—smiled, and despite her icy colored eyes, she did not seem at all cold.

“Welcome, Riders. If my husband would stop dancing ’round me, I would bring you ale and stew and cornbread.”

“Of course!” Damian said. “Where are my manners? Please be seated, Fergal and Karigan, and supper will commence immediately.”

Fergal wasted no time in seating himself on a bench. Karigan followed more slowly, and felt rather befuddled as Damian and Lady bustled around the kitchen as though performing an orchestrated dance. Damian held bowls while Lady ladled steaming stew into them and added a dollop of cream and he bore the bowls to the table and placed them before his guests with the gentility of a footman. Next came a basket of golden cornbread and a warmed crock of molasses to spread atop it. Damian lifted a trap door to the root cellar and descended with a stoneware pitcher. When he reappeared, foam oozed over the pitcher’s lip and he poured the ale into mugs for Karigan, Fergal, and himself. At some point Lady had brewed herself a cup of tea and now stirred it.

The stew, of course, was excellent and took the cold out of Karigan’s limbs and the ale warmed her cheeks. Her stomach, however, was uncertain about retaining the food, as though her fall off Condor had shaken it up. She sipped at the stew’s broth and avoided the larger bits of vegetables and beef. She could not drink more than half her mug of ale.

The Frosts asked the Riders about their journey and Karigan let Fergal do the talking around mouthfuls of food. The conversation became a distant noise to Karigan, like wind in the trees or the breeze brushing across vast grasslands. She imagined the plains and a dark horse surging through the grasses like a ship plowing through the sea, his mane and tail long and wild. He ran toward her.

“Red?” Fergal said.

Karigan shook herself as though awakening from a dream. She blinked at the lamplight.

“Aye,” Damian said, “young Red Mapstone.”

“The captain?” Fergal’s tone was incredulous.

Damian clapped his hands. “Aye, the captain. Usually she comes herself when the need for horses arises. Is she well?”

“Well, but overwhelmed,” Karigan murmured, surprised to hear herself answer.

“Nothing new there, I s’pose,” Damian said.

Damian continued to question Fergal, but Karigan found Lady gazing at her, unblinking, the teacup poised before her lips.

“You’ve hardly touched your stew,” Lady said.

Her voice was quiet, but Damian nonetheless heard and turned his attention to his wife. “What is it, my lady?”

“Oh, Damian,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Sometimes you lack even the wits of your horses.” She reached over and patted Karigan’s hand. “I will give you a soothing tea and let you go to bed directly.” She turned back to her husband. “Honestly, you could have told me she’s hurt.”

“Hurt? Oh, the fall. Well, she didn’t complain…”

“Honestly.”

Before Karigan knew it, she was hustled off to a small guest chamber and settled into bed with a mattress stuffed with sweet grasses. Lady brought her tea, a compress for the bridge of her nose, and a hot water bottle for her neck.

“I’m not too bad,” Karigan said.

“Honestly. You Riders are as stubborn as my husband. A few falls from a horse and it knocks the sense right out of you. You drink that tea, young lady, then waste no time in trying to sleep.”

“Th–thank you.”

Lady left and Karigan sighed in contentment, the water bottle easing the ache in her neck. The tea was herbal and heartening, and had a soporific effect, for no sooner did she finish it and set the mug aside on a night table than she fell asleep, dreaming she stood alone in a vast, empty grassland. No great, dark horse surged across waves of rolling grasses, only the wind. She thought she could discern it speaking, but the words were unintelligible.

Then she discovered she was not alone after all. A man trudged toward her, his back humped with a pack and his long white beard swaying with the motion of his stride. He bore a long walking staff.

As he came closer, she recognized him.

“Merdigen?” she said. Why wasn’t he in his tower?

He paused and peered around as if he couldn’t see her at first, then he narrowed his eyes and gazed directly at her.

“What are
you
doing here?” he demanded.

“It’s
my
dream,” she said. “There should be a horse.”

Merdigen huffed. “It’s always about horses with you Riders. Horses, horses, horses. You shouldn’t be here. Go away!” He trudged past her grumbling to himself. “This happens and I haven’t even crossed a bridge yet.”

Karigan watched him stride on till he disappeared into the horizon. When she turned around, she saw another figure watching her, a man standing off in the distance, the grasses undulating toward him in waves. Even this far away she discerned details. He was dressed in the ancient garb of the Green Riders, his brooch glowing golden in the sunshine, and his mail gleaming. He wore a sword and bow across his back, and a horn slung at his hip. His hair streamed away from his face in the wind.

From a world away, his voice came to her. He asked,
Do you know what you are?

Karigan wanted to speak to him, to ask him what he meant, but he vanished, and the plains with him, leaving her dreams to drift into the realm of the vague and unmemorable.

T
he next morning Karigan awoke refreshed with no memory of her dreams but for a lingering sense of some question left unanswered. Since she couldn’t remember the question, it was going to stay unanswered. She shrugged it off, ready to begin the new day.

When she stepped out of bed and stretched, she was pleased to feel little achiness from her fall, even in her neck. Whatever herbs Lady brewed in her tea, they worked miracles. She discovered little bruising or swelling on her forehead as she gazed into the round mirror above her washstand. Maybe she hadn’t hit the eave as hard as she thought or maybe Lady’s tea possessed properties that went beyond simply alleviating pain. Maybe Lady herself possessed abilities in mending that went beyond the ordinary.

Cobwebs still clouded Karigan’s brain and she deemed it too early to speculate about Lady or her tea. She was just grateful to be spared the pain.

She washed and dressed, then went looking for people, but the house was quiet and empty. Across from her room was a large bedchamber that must belong to Lady and Damian. Down the short hall was a common living area with a fireplace. The furnishings were ingeniously made of stout branches and the cushions covered in soft hide. Deer antlers hung above the mantel. She had missed all this last night.

Adjoining the common room was the kitchen, where she found a note from Lady saying she should make herself at home and eat breakfast, then join them in the stable out back.

Karigan was tempted to skip breakfast and just go out, but her empty stomach made her think better of it. She found a kettle still warming over the banked coals in the large hearth and a jar of tea and a mug awaiting her on the table. She sniffed the crushed tea leaves, wondering if they held any special properties like last night’s brew, but though they smelled pungent and fresh, they seemed like an ordinary blend. Then she noticed the neatly written label:
Breakfast Tea.
She shrugged and spooned the tea leaves into her mug then poured hot water into it.

On the table was also a loaf of bread, crock of butter, and a second crock of blueberry preserves. If she looked further she would have found more, but she was embarrassed enough by having overslept that she made do with the tea and two helpings of bread slathered with butter and jam.

When she finished, she drew on her greatcoat and stepped outside. It was cold enough for her to see her breath on the air, and the weather dissipated any remnant cobwebs in her head. She strode off the front porch and rounded the house. What she had not been able to see in the dark the previous evening was a series of outbuildings and enclosures. Damian Frost’s place was a proper farm with gardens now dormant, chickens pecking the ground around their henhouse, a lean-to occupied by pigs, and a shed housing goats and a pair of cows. Beyond was a barn that Karigan assumed stabled the horses.

She set off for the barn, thinking that something was missing from the scene. The gardens, pens, and outbuildings were right, and there were a sled and wagon situated outside the barn, but something wasn’t in place. As she approached the barn, walking a well-worn path beaten by hooves and boots, she realized what it was. There was no paddock or fencing of any kind for holding horses.

Just as she began to doubt the barn served as the stable, Condor poked his head out a window and whinnied at her as if to hurry her up. Karigan did just that.

The large double doors were wide open and she stepped inside, wondering if she’d find some enchanted scene before her wrought by Damian Frost, the man who provided the Green Riders with their extraordinary horses, and by his wife who apparently possessed unknown healing skills. She found nothing out of the ordinary, however, unless one counted Fergal pitching manure out of a stall into a wheelbarrow.

The stable was airy and clean, with eight box stalls, all empty but for those occupied by Sunny and Condor. Sunny was contentedly pulling at hay from her hay rack, and Condor bobbed his head over his stall door and nickered. Karigan walked over to him and caressed his nose.

“Morning,” Fergal said.

“Morning. Where are the Frosts?”

“Here we be, lass.” Damian emerged from a doorway, carrying two Rider saddles, with matching bridles draped over each shoulder. Beside him walked a brindle wolfhound about the size of a pony. It padded to a pile of fresh straw, yawned, and heaved over, raising a cloud of dust. It dropped its head onto its front paws, settling in for a nap.

“That’s Ero,” Damian said. “Runt of the litter.”

Karigan decided Ero’s littermates must then be the size of horses.

Lady was a few steps behind Damian, bearing another bridle and a covered basket over her arm. “So glad to see you up and about,” she told Karigan.

“Uh, yes, thank you. Your tea—it worked wonders.”

Lady responded with a pleased smile.

“Come get your gear, my Riders,” Damian said. “Riding I’m going, riding with Riders!”

Karigan and Fergal collected their tack from him.

“I’ve brushed and curried your Condor, lass, and picked his hooves clean. No need to fuss, just saddle up.”

While Karigan did so, she wondered what Damian was going to ride, then began to listen to the debate developing between him and Lady.

“What about Abby?” Lady said.

“She’s resting. I rode her yesterday.”

“How about Uncle?”

“No, no, not today.”

“Sea Star?”

Damian grimaced and rubbed his back end as though remembering some unpleasant experience. “No, definitely not Sea Star.”

Karigan tightened Condor’s girth, watching the couple over his withers. Lady gazed up toward the rafters as if in deep thought. “Seymour, perhaps?”

“Too slow,” Damian said. “He’d never keep apace of Condor.”

“Jack?”

“Jericho has Jack today, and Gus has Rose.”

Karigan wondered where Damian hid all his horses.

“I know! Gracie!”

“Heavens, no. She’s absolutely bats.”

“Then who?” Lady demanded. “The dog?”

Ero lifted his massive head as if alarmed by the suggestion. Karigan giggled into Condor’s neck.

“How am I supposed to know what to sing?” Lady asked.

Sing?
What did singing have to do with anything?

“Who do we have left?” Damian started counting on his fingers, muttering to himself. “I know, I’ll ride Cat.”

Lady shook her head. “My dear, you sold Cat two weeks ago to old Tom Binder.”

“Oh, I forgot. That leaves Fox.”

“Fox it is, then,” Lady said. “I shall sing him in.” Basket still hanging from her arm, she walked to the stable entrance and peered out. Glancing back at her husband, she said, “They are far off this morn.”

Damian shrugged.

Lady sighed, then loosed a deafening holler that nearly knocked Karigan off her feet. “
FOX!
Fox, Fox, Fox,
FOX!
”

That was singing?

But then Lady did sing, and in normal tones:
“Come Foxy, come Fox, from your grazing and phlox. Your master seeks you and needs you to ride among the flocks. Come Foxy, come Fox!”

The song went on at some length with its nonsensical lyrics, but pleasant tones, and Karigan expected the song’s subject to trot into the stable at any moment. Lady’s song faded to an end. All watched and waited. Still nothing. Lady looked vexed.

Damian stepped up beside his wife and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re right, Lady, my lady and love. They’re far off.” He then stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled a note so shrill Karigan clenched her teeth and poor Ero whined.

When the whistle died, they waited again. This time Karigan heard hooves pounding the ground—many hooves.

Damian and Lady stepped away from the entrance and even Ero rose to his feet and lumbered to the safety of the tack room. A veritable herd of horses crowded into the stable. They were of all proportions and colors and markings. They milled about poking their noses into Condor’s stall, lipping at stray bits of straw, bumping into one another, their hooves scraping loudly on the cobble floor. In the crowded confines there were a few nips and kicks, but no serious altercations.

“Fox!” Damian yelled. A horse somewhere in the throng whinnied. “Fox, it’s you I’m wanting—the rest of you clear out. Get on with you, back to pasture!”

As if the horses understood his words exactly, they flowed out of the stable as quickly as they entered, but for a shaggy bay gelding who remained behind.

“That’s the trouble with whistling them in,” Lady said, “it’s not very specific. They were just too far off to hear my song.”

Karigan had never heard of singing a horse in and was sorry the demonstration had not worked. She did know a Rider or two who could summon their individual horses with a whistle, but an entire herd? She was impressed.

“Could you teach me to do that, sir?” Fergal asked, apparently impressed as well.

“Why sure, lad.” Damian stood beside the bay, scrutinizing him. He was a stocky specimen with a star between his eyes, and he was coated in dry mud. “It will have to be later though. My foxy Fox here needs curry and comb, and brush and pick before we ride. Gave himself a mud bath, he did, and us a delay.”

Karigan leaned against the stall door, Condor resting his chin on her shoulder as she watched Damian work on Fox. The gelding stood there unmoving without cross-tie or halter. He half closed his eyes in contentment as Damian stroked him with the currycomb. Damian must have trained his horses well to enjoy being groomed, for Karigan had known some in her life that were intolerant of it, or at least had sensitive areas that when touched, incited a kick or bite.

In the meantime, Fergal further surprised her that morning by grabbing a shovel to pick up piles of manure left behind by the horses.

“Damian is taking you out to the plains to look over the herds,” Lady told her.

“That…wasn’t them?” Karigan asked.

“That lot? That was our domestic stock. No, he’s going to take you to see where the wild ones run. That is, after all, the stock from which he picks Green Rider horses.”

“Wild horses,” Karigan murmured. “I didn’t know.”

“There are wild horses,” Lady said, her gaze distant, “and then there are wild horses.”

“True enough,” Damian said. Without a word or even a tap on the leg, Fox lifted a hoof for him to pick out. “I don’t choose just any horses for my Riders.”

In no time, Fox’s coat gleamed and his tail and mane were combed neat and unmatted. Damian slipped the bridle over his nose. It had no bit. “Fergal, lad,” he said, “give me a leg up if you would.”

Fergal did so and Damian sat upon Fox bareback. “Thank you, Fergal. Used to be able to vault right up, but I’m not as young as I once was, am I, Lady.”

“You are ancient,” she told him and they laughed as though this were a cherished joke. She brought him her basket and placed the handle over his wrist. He leaned down and they kissed. “Now don’t be too late in coming back, Master Frost. I’ll have supper waiting.”

“Oh ho, I shall not be late for that!” He turned to Karigan and Fergal and said, “Mount up my friends. It’s time we went riding.” He squeezed Fox’s sides and they plodded out of the stable. A whistle issued from without—this time a quick, sharp tone—and Ero the wolfhound emerged from the tack room and trotted outside to join his master.

Karigan led Condor out of his stall and as she prepared to mount, Lady said, “If you are lucky, you might even see the patron of your messenger horses.” Without explaining, she left the stable with a wave and an, “Enjoy your day!”

With that intriguing comment to gnaw on, Karigan placed her toe into the stirrup and swung up onto Condor’s back.