The High King's Tomb (38 page)

A
s they rode, Damian wanted to know the fates of some of the horses which he supplied to the Green Riders over the years. Karigan found herself passing on the sad news of those who died in the line of duty, horses and Riders both. Tears glistened in Damian’s eyes. She told him also of Crane, who lost his Rider, but chose Ty as his new partner.

“Is Crane still the fastest?” Damian asked.

Karigan chuckled. “Ty does not believe racing is befitting for a Green Rider. That said, they’ve not lost a single race yet.”

Damian rocked on Fox’s back with laughter. “And I know who’d not take any nonsense about not racing—that Red, she’s a wicked one. And mind you, a devious gambler.”

Karigan smiled at the thought of her captain as “wicked,” and found she could not disagree.

Damian grew serious again. “I rarely meet the Riders who become partners with my equine friends. Old Condor there, he’s seen some action by the look of those scars on his hide. And I know you are not his original Rider.”

“No, I’m not,” Karigan said. “F’ryan Coblebay died a couple springs back.”

Damian nodded. “Usually it’s Red who travels here to deal for new horses, though I met Crane’s Ereal once. I’m sorry for her loss, and for that of the others.”

Karigan closed her eyes but doing so only brought back the nightmare memories of two arrows arcing through the night, thudding into Ereal’s body one after the other.

She cleared her throat, wanting to steer the conversation in a less painful direction. “How long have you supplied Riders with horses?”

“Oh, all my life, as my family has down the generations. Since Captain Faraday Hartwood Simms led the Riders some eight hundred years ago or so.”

“Really?” Karigan, knowledgeable in the ways of trade as she was, was shocked. “Your family must be extraordinary traders.”

Damian flashed her a disarming smile. “You will soon see why you Riders come to us for horses, lass, and I can assure you, it has little to do with our prowess in trade. We must step smart now, we have some ground to cover.”

On loose rein, and without any perceptible command from Damian, Fox picked up into a fast, ground-eating trot. Ero loped ahead, his nose periodically poking above the brush as he paused to make sure everyone was coming along, then he’d dash off again, tail wagging. That tail, Karigan thought, could probably fell a tree. He had no trouble keeping up with the horses and appeared to take joy in running ahead or alongside them.

The trail they followed was well beaten and churned by horse hooves, leading Karigan to believe that it wasn’t only the Frosts who used the trail, but the herd as well.

Thickets of trees turned to low-growing scrub and, after some miles, the scrub became mere islands in an expanse of rolling grasslands. The tips of the grasses, now golden brown with the season, brushed the soles of Karigan’s boots as she rode along.

Damian slowed Fox to a walk and the three of them rode shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. “We are technically in Rhovanny,” Damian said. “And this is the southernmost finger of the Wanda Plains. There are many herds of wild horses that roam the plains. Mine tend to call this area their own territory.”

“Why are there so many wild horses here?” Fergal asked.

“It is passed down through my family that the plains horses are descendants of warhorses who lost their riders during the last battle of the Long War, which took place on the central plains. Sacoridian horses, Arcosian horses, Eletian horses, Rhovan…Those horses escaped the bloodletting and ran free, becoming as feral as their own ancestors in the time before humankind first domesticated them. They mixed their bloodlines in a way their human counterparts could never hope to. Horses have more sense than people, I often think.” Damian paused and rubbed his chin, his gaze far off.

“The horses do well enough here, despite the harsh winters. Those in the north plains find it more difficult. Not only are the winters tougher, but there are more predators—wolves, big cats, and the groundmites that den in the region. Our family has always kept wolfhounds, and that has helped stave off the predators, though Ero here is as like to invite a wolf to play as to attack it. All in all, the plains and the original mix of horses have yielded a very sturdy beast.”

Karigan patted Condor’s neck, wondering about his ancestors and the bloodlines that must flow through his veins. Were his ancestors of Eletian origin? Or, like her, of Arcosian descent? If so, she was comforted by the thought. If anything Arcosian could lead to a horse like him, she herself couldn’t be all that bad. She smiled.

“We still have a little way to go,” Damian said. “We keep shelter in some old ruins, and we’ll find Gus and Jericho there.”

He picked up their pace again, this time easing into a lope. Condor’s ears were at attention and his step lighter than she ever recalled. This was his home and she tried to imagine him as a foal running among spring grasses, kicking up his hooves and nudging close to his mother.
What did she look like?
Did he resemble his dam more, or his sire?

The sun continued to climb and the grasslands spread around them as their horses beat across the land in a hypnotic rhythm. Ero bounded through the grasses, eyes bright and tongue lolling in evident delight.

If only every day could be like this,
Karigan thought.

Soon a knoll rose above them, crowned by unnatural shapes jutting from the earth. Damian reined Fox to a jog, then a walk.

“Here is our shelter,” Damian said, pointing up the knoll.

The ruins were made of stone, and were round and jagged like broken teeth. As they neared the ruins, she saw that these were remnants, just foundations, as though some great hand had emerged from the sky and knocked the structures over, except for one that looked to be partially rebuilt. Smoke issued through a hole in its conical, thatched roof.

Ero bounded off, pausing only to lift his leg here and there. Slabs of cut stone, most too large for a single man to lift, littered either side of their path. Whatever force toppled the buildings had been cataclysmic.

“What are these ruins?” Fergal asked.

“Tradition holds,” Damian said, “that this was easternmost Kmaern. If so, this was but one village destroyed by Mornhavon the Black.”

Though it was by now midday and the sky clear, a shadow seemed to pass over them and just briefly Karigan thought she could hear lost voices carried on a breeze and away. She shuddered.

“They lived in towers,” Damian said. “They were the greatest stoneworkers in all the lands, and it was from them the D’Yers learned their craft. Mornhavon despised them and obliterated them. Even their towers could not withstand him, except for the very foundations that are rooted to the Earth.”

“Didn’t any of them survive?” Fergal asked.

“Hard to say, lad. Hard to say. Kmaern, at any rate, is dead.”

Dead, dead, dead…
the wind seemed to say as it passed over the ruins.

Gooseflesh spread across Karigan’s skin.

At Ero’s bark, one of Damian’s sons emerged from the shelter and waved. He played with Ero until they reached him. Karigan had no idea if this was Jericho or Gus. It had been too dark last night to distinguish between the two.

“Well, son,” Damian said as he drew Fox to a halt by the shelter, “I assume Jericho is out watching?”

“Aye, he is. The wind has changed and the herds are joining.”

Karigan and Fergal exchanged glances.

“Jericho can see the patron,” Damian said.

“I can’t. Not yet, anyway,” Gus said, with a downcast look.

“Sounds like he may make an appearance for us, for some of us at least,” Damian said. “But first things first—food!”

How could someone see the patron—whoever or whatever he was—and someone else not, Karigan wondered. She doubted she’d get a straight answer from Damian.

They dismounted and set the horses to grazing. Damian assured Karigan that Condor and Sunny would not stray too far, and she believed him. Condor, relieved of his tack, ran and bucked like a young colt, then found a place to roll in the deep grasses. It pleased her to see him so happy, and she was sorry she’d have to take him from the plains of his birth once their business with Damian Frost was completed. She decided not to think about it for now.

Gus and Fergal were already rummaging through Lady’s basket when Karigan entered the shelter. She found a small fire crackling in the center of the floor, with a couple of crude benches pulled up to it. There was also a pair of pallets with gear strewn about that must belong to the boys.

While Damian made tea, Gus and Fergal produced sausage rolls, bread, apples—with extras for the horses—and a crock of goat cheese.

“Save some for Jericho,” Damian reminded them.

The cold air and morning ride had awakened their appetites and they ate, barely pausing to speak. When they finished, Damian packed the remnants of the meal into the basket, then with a whistle, called upon their horses to return. True to his word, they had not strayed far. The Riders tacked their horses, took leave of Gus, and rode through the ruins to the open plains, Ero trailing behind.

“There is a particular place the horses like,” Damian said. “A valley with a stream that offers some protection from the wind. I ’spect we’ll find Jericho there and the wild ones. It’s not far.”

By Karigan’s calculations, the valley was but a few miles off. They found Jericho sitting cross-legged in the grass gazing into the valley below through a spyglass. Ero announced their arrival by bouncing over to him and licking his ears. Jericho laughed and ruffled the fur atop the wolfhound’s head. Karigan realized another reason why she had trouble distinguishing between the two boys—they were twins.

Jericho rose to greet them, tucking the spyglass under his arm. Damian handed him the basket and slid off Fox’s back. “How goes it, son?”

“Good, Pop. Three bands have merged.”

While Karigan did not know a whole lot about wild horses, she said, “That’s unusual, isn’t it? Bands merging?”

“These are not your usual wild horses,” Damian replied. He took the spyglass from Jericho and walked over to the edge of the ridge to look into the valley below.

Karigan dismounted and once again untacked Condor. His ears were erect and his flesh quivered. She wondered if he wanted to run down into the valley to join the wild ones, but when he was loose, he and Sunny simply ambled off along the ridge to graze. She shrugged and joined Damian and Fergal. Behind her, Jericho ate the leftovers from the basket and played with Ero, who rolled on his back with legs up in the air.

Big puppy,
she thought.

The valley sloped gently beneath them, the grasses interspersed with scrub. At the bottom of the valley, a stream of silver-black meandered among reeds and cattail stalks, and some trees found shelter enough from the winds to grow. It was at the far end of the valley that Karigan saw the bumps in the landscape that were the horses.

“Three bands,” Damian murmured. “Jericho was right. The stallions are watchful and dare not mingle, but the mares and youngsters have merged.” He handed the spyglass to Fergal.

“Why would they merge?” Karigan asked. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s a sign the patron is expected,” Damian said. “This year past he’s been appearing more often. There is more than horse sense at work here—maybe you’d call it god sense. Anyway, when he is expected, the bands merge so he can come among them again. It is how I also knew to expect Green Riders on my front porch. He seems to sense when messenger horses are needed.”

“What is this patron?” Karigan asked.

“A stallion like you’ve never seen before, lass.”

A breeze plucked a strand of hair from Karigan’s braid and tickled her face. She tucked it behind her ear. “And the stallions just tolerate this interloper among their harems?”

“Aye,” Damian said. “He is, in a sense, their king. They bow down to him.”

Karigan wanted to ask if they literally bowed, but then Fergal passed her the spyglass and left her and Damian to go sit with Jericho and Ero. Just as she wondered how a horse trader came to possess a very expensive spyglass, she noted an inscription right on the brass tubing:
To the Family Frost, with appreciation for generations of dedicated service, Her Royal Highness Queen Isen Hillander.
A gift from King Zachary’s grandmother! There must be quite a story behind the gift, but that would be for later. Other business was at hand.

She put the spyglass to her eye and focused, finding the view fine and clear, attesting to the superior grade of glass used for the lenses. Her gaze followed along the stream to where the bands of horses grazed and drank. Some leggy foals rested on the ground, their heads just visible above the tips of sun-touched grasses. The mares were alert, but not anxious. Karigan counted twenty-five to thirty in all, chestnuts, bays, grays, duns, roans, and blacks, some with markings, some without. A couple were spotted over the whole of their bodies, and there were a few paints, but she could find no definite pattern of lineage from horse to horse.

The three stallions kept their distance from one another and their harems, putting their noses to the wind, watching for predators, and occasionally grabbing a mouthful of grass. One was gray, another dun, and the third a bay with one white sock. Their manes and tails grew long and untamed, their forelocks falling over an eye, giving them each a rakish look. The spyglass presented her with no more detail than that at this distance.