The High King's Tomb (39 page)

“So this is the stock that Green Rider horses come from,” she murmured.

“A special few are born true,” Damian said. “They’ve that spark of intelligence ’bout them.”

Karigan took the spyglass from her eye. “How do you know which to choose?”

“How do you know your Condor isn’t the same as other horses?”

“He’s pretty smart.”

“Just smart, lass?”

Karigan knew it was more than that. She and Condor shared a rapport as with no other horse she’d known. It was as if he sensed sometimes exactly what was on her mind, and could understand her words, not just commands. He’d saved her life a time or two when other horses would have bolted in terror. He wasn’t just well-trained; he wasn’t just smart.

“Down the line of my family,” Damian said, his eyes squinting as he gazed into the valley, “it has always been told that these certain horses are god-touched, and that the patron is the bearer of that touch.”

“Salvistar?” Karigan asked in incredulity.

Damian shrugged. “If you believe it, maybe it is so. He has never walked up to us and told us his name.” He laughed and slapped his thigh. “That’d be the day! Westrion’s steed speaking to us. Imagine that.”

“This stallion,” Karigan pressed, not yet willing to accept the idea he was a god-being, “he’s the sire of the messenger horses?”

“No, not the sire, lass, except maybe in spirit. He has an influence, or at least an
interest,
we don’t rightly comprehend. Maybe it’s the plains that produce our special horses. With all the magic gone amok in the final battle of the Long War, I shouldn’t be surprised if there weren’t some remnant of it left behind, like the ruins of the Kmaernians, that somehow has some effect on the horses. Still…” Damian stroked his chin. “Still, I’ve never heard of any of the other scattered herds producing horses quite like mine, nor have I ever heard of one such as our patron passing among them. Whatever the truth of it is, I consider it a blessing. A joy for me it has been to be among such fine beasties.”

Karigan glanced over her shoulder at Condor happily munching away at the grass, his tail whisking in contentment. He was not a particularly attractive horse, ill-proportioned as he was, but he was special. Special enough that he was the chosen of the death god’s steed? Or the product of remnant magic? She shook her head.

One question always led to a hundred more. If she saw this “patron” of Green Rider horses, would it answer questions or prompt more? The breeze tugged her hair loose again and fluttered it in her face. She pressed it back.

“It is an oath spoken centuries ago,” Damian said, “that my family swore to stand steward over these special steeds, and that they were to go to Green Riders only, and it is an oath we will never break. The horses would accept no one else anyway. Why this is so, I cannot say. The others who are not god-touched? Why, they are fine beasties, too, though rather ordinary, and my family supports itself on their trade. Let’s move a little closer.”

“They won’t run off?”

“Naw. We’ve never treated them ill and they are accustomed to me and the boys. We won’t crowd them.”

Damian started off along the ridge, and when Ero followed, Jericho called him back. Fergal looked content to remain with Jericho and Ero, but Damian glanced back at him and beckoned. “C’mon, my lad, let’s see how they take to you.”

Karigan didn’t think Fergal would care to take a closer look at the horses, but to her surprise, he sprang immediately to his feet, appearing pleased by the invitation. He strode through the grasses beside Damian and the older man put his arm around his shoulder, spinning some tale or telling secrets. Karigan couldn’t discern which.

She trudged after them thinking maybe Damian didn’t have a way with just horses, but with the sons of knackers as well.

D
amian didn’t stay atop the ridge but angled downward, closer to the herd, though not threatening the position of the bay stallion on the closer side of the stream. He was wary of them, but issued no challenge and bugled no warning to his band.

Wading through the grasses, letting her hands float across their tips, Karigan began to wonder if whatever mending Lady had done was wearing off, for she felt a pressure mounting in her head, in the air, like a storm building. She forced herself to take a deep breath, but it did not ease the sensation. The breeze kicked up again, whispering across the grasses, whipping the hem of her greatcoat about her legs, and dislodging that very annoying strand of hair from behind her ear again. She thrust it back, deciding she’d have to rebraid when they stopped, wild horses or not.

At about a good stone’s throw from the horses, Damian motioned for her and Fergal to halt, while he continued on. The horses noted their progress all along, raising their heads from grazing to glance at them and to sniff their scent on the air. Still no alarm was given.

Damian approached the herd slowly and one by one the horses stopped what they were doing to turn to him. A few ambled toward him, and a couple of fearless youngsters trotted right up to him and nudged at his pockets. He laughed and produced an apple which he split with his thumbs and fed to them. More members of the herd overcame their reticence to investigate, some crossing the stream to do so.

Soon all the horses stood around Damian, tails flicking. There was no kicking, biting, or shouldering of one another. Each appeared intent on Damian in some silent rapport.

“I thought they were supposed to be wild,” Fergal said.

Karigan had been thinking much the same thing, but as Damian said, these were not ordinary wild horses. Damian himself was no ordinary horse trader.

One by one the horses peeled away from the group to resume grazing. A couple of foals lingered, poking Damian’s pockets again. He patted them on their necks, said something to them, and they dispersed. Damian shook his head and returned to Karigan and Fergal, falling to the ground with his legs spread out in front of him.

“What now?” Karigan asked.

“We watch and wait,” Damian replied.

A breeze tickled Karigan’s nose and she rubbed it, only to realize she had fallen asleep. She blinked her eyes wide open to the grass stalks that surrounded her, the smell of the crushed greens filling her nose. The nap, unfortunately, did not relieve the sense of pressure in the air. She rolled to her side and leaned on her elbow, discovering Fergal had also fallen asleep. Not only that, but a foal was nosing Fergal’s toes. He was a handsome fellow, creamy in color with a flaxen mane. He’d probably darken to a lovely golden palomino as he matured.

Just beyond Fergal, Damian sat cross-legged in the grass, grinning.

The colt continued to whiffle along Fergal’s legs, lipping at his greatcoat. Karigan dared not move lest she spook the colt and ruin the moment.

The colt reached Fergal’s head and nibbled hair.

Fergal, still more asleep than awake, swatted blindly as though ridding himself of a fly. The colt jerked his head up, hair caught between his teeth. Fergal’s eyes popped open and he screamed. The colt jumped straight up from a standstill. Karigan had never seen anything like it and she could not help but laugh. The poor colt bolted off and hid behind his mother, poking his head under her belly to watch the humans from safety.

Fergal rubbed his head. “Wha–what happened?”

Karigan was laughing too hard to answer.

“The young ones are curious,” Damian said. “Seems one took a liking to you.”

From the gleam in Damian’s eye, Karigan took it to mean that Fergal had found more than a “friend.” It was odd the way the world worked. Fergal wanted nothing to do with horses, but now as a Green Rider he must depend on them, and one may have just chosen him to be his Rider partner.

Fergal’s face hardened. “Well, my da would have liked these horses, too,” he said, “but for other reasons.” He rose and stomped back up the ridge in the direction of Jericho and Ero.

“Oh, no,” Karigan muttered, fearing Fergal may have just rejected horses for good.

“A wounded spirit,” Damian said as he watched after Fergal, “but not broken. As time passes, he will mend.”

Karigan hoped so, for the sake of the young colt, and for Fergal’s own.

“Has he ever told you,” Damian asked softly, “about the first animal his father made him slaughter?”

Karigan shook her head, certain she did not want to hear about it now, as she found the entire subject distressing.

“It was a gentle draft horse named Randy that pulled the knacker’s wagon,” Damian said. “Old Randy was probably Fergal’s best friend in the whole world—someone he could tell his dreams and secrets to. Someone who loved him no matter what, and who would not hurt him. Fergal certainly wasn’t getting much affection elsewhere, except maybe from some kind folk in the village who took pity on him. He sure wasn’t getting it at home.”

Damian sat in silence for a few moments, the sunlight playing across his weathered face and deepening wrinkles and crags in bold shadows. “When Fergal’s father decided it was time his boy was old enough to learn the family trade, he used his own horse for Fergal’s first lesson. Claimed Randy was getting on in years, wasn’t pulling his weight anymore.”

Karigan wanted to cover her ears against the painful tale. Damian didn’t have to tell her what this must have been like for Fergal—she could imagine it, all the horrid details. She just had to substitute herself and Condor for Fergal and Randy, and she knew. She
knew.

“His father beat him for crying,” Damian said.

“Enough,” Karigan pleaded. “Please don’t tell me anymore. I–I don’t want to hear it.”

“I know, lass,” Damian replied, not unkindly, “but think of Fergal not just hearing it, but
living
it. He learned from his father very early on not to grow attached to animals. And certainly not to cry.” He paused and scratched his head. “He never stopped caring, though. That much I can see. He just buried it real deep so it wouldn’t hurt so much. He’s a resilient lad, and becoming a Rider has done much toward healing him. He has a new family now, eh?”

Karigan nodded and pulled at some grass. She was both relieved and jealous Fergal had chosen to open up to Damian instead of herself.
Mostly relieved,
she had to admit. They must have spoken during the night while she slept and dreamed of…of grasslands?

It was not surprising Fergal chose to talk to Damian, she reflected. She was so wrapped up in her own life she hadn’t been overly patient with him at times, and Damian possessed a well of compassion a hundred fathoms deeper than her own. She could tell just by the way the horses, including Condor, responded to him. She thanked the gods Fergal had been able to meet men like Rendle and Damian, so different from his father, especially since she’d fallen short a time or two in her duty as mentor.

And Damian echoed her own belief that the Riders were a family, or maybe even better than a family. Fergal would find friendship and respect among them. The Riders watched out for one another, cared for one another, and sometimes even squabbled like true siblings. Karigan smiled as she imagined herself as Fergal’s grouchy, older sister.

A stiff breeze funneled into the valley, plowing down the grasses before it, tousling the manes of horses, tugging yet again on that bit of hair Karigan had forgotten to rebraid. Damian took to scanning the valley, his back erect.

“What is it?” Karigan asked, her hand going to the hilt of the saber. Could it be predators he was worried about, or maybe even groundmites?

The horses all faced into the wind, their ears perked.

“Damian?” Karigan said. She glanced up the ridge. Jericho stood in a watchful attitude as well.

She started to draw her saber, but Damian leaned over and stayed her hand with a touch. “No, lass. It’s the patron. He comes.”

Karigan released the saber’s hilt, but remained suspicious. “Where is he?”

“He comes.” Damian rose to his feet and she followed suit.

“Well
I
don’t see him.”

“Not here yet.”

Karigan asked, “Then how do you know he comes?”

“The wind, lass,” Damian said. “The wind precedes him, and the wind follows. He is Eolian.”

“Eolian?” Was it some exotic breed of horse she had never heard of before?

“Shaper of wind,” Damian said.

Karigan sighed. The more Damian tried to explain, the less she understood.

“There,” Damian said, pointing toward the mouth of the valley. “There he is.”

Karigan squinted trying to see, but no horse was visible to her. Then her vision blurred and there was a flutter of motion…She blinked and her eyes cleared. She couldn’t have seen anything; just a trick of the eye, the wind tossing grass and brush around…

Then she was met with the absurd sight of the horses bowing their heads. Up on the ridge even her Condor did so. Damian had meant it literally when he said the horses bowed to their king.

She gazed at the valley anew. Maybe her eyes had not been playing tricks on her after all. The pressure in her head, in the air, continued to build, swell. She rubbed her temple.

“Do you see him?” Damian asked.

“No.”

“Do not look with your eyes.”

It was one absurdity after another. She closed her eyes and saw only the back of her eyelids. What did Damian mean? Her Rider brooch flashed in warmth. She touched it, felt a throb through her fingertips, like the rhythm of hoofbeats. When she opened her eyes, the world had gone gray—the land, the horses, Damian, everything.

“You’ve faded, lass, like a ghost!” There was consternation in Damian’s voice.

Karigan smiled. It was fair play to perplex him this time. Her special ability worked better in darkness and shadows in which she seemed to vanish completely. In direct sunlight like this, the effect was less successful, making her a living wraith.

Something in the air had prompted her to use her ability, so she gazed across the valley anew, and there he was, the stallion, practically pulsating in her vision with blackness against desolate gray. He pawed the earth, each muscle rippling beneath a hide smooth as ebon silk. He negated light, was made of its absence, like the night sky, the heavens; and when he moved, the grasses around him swirled like a dervish, though his long mane and tail remained undisturbed.

“Eolian,” Karigan murmured.

He raised his head, tossing aside his forelock, as though deigning to take notice of the more earthly creatures around him. He snorted and trotted over to Fergal’s little colt and his dam. The colt’s legs folded beneath him—or buckled—and he lay on the ground looking up at the god-being that was his patron.

If not a god-being, Karigan thought, what else could the stallion be?

The dam bobbed her head and, incredibly, nibbled just above the stallion’s withers, and he reciprocated by nibbling at the base of her tail. This friendly grooming went on for a short while and gradually others among the horses came to touch noses to the stallion or offer grooming. He flicked his ears as they came and went, chasing none off. The only ones who did not approach were the other stallions, who remained at their watchful distance.

Once again the black stallion raised his head to the sky, curling back his upper lip.

“Our turn,” Damian said. “He’s taking our scent.”

“Wouldn’t we have…I mean, shouldn’t he have been concerned about us sooner?”

Damian chuckled. “And what could
we
do against him if he thought us a threat? No, lass, he knows we’re no threat. And he’s familiar with my scent.”

The stallion left the herd and approached them, head lowered, each stride self-contained power. He halted and gazed at them through his long forelock. A breeze pulled on Karigan’s hair and this time she didn’t push it away.

Beside her, Damian knelt to one knee. “Greetings, Eolian,” he said.

Karigan’s own knees trembled, for she believed she looked upon something greater than a king, something not of this world. When she gazed into his eyes, she saw beyond simple intelligence, saw chaos and the infinite. The blackness of his eyes absorbed her, consumed her, and in a vision she saw the star-draped universe, and amid the constellations galloped the stallion, muscles flowing in midnight hues. Upon his back rode a winged warrior whose helm was the beak and visage of a raptor. Westrion, the Birdman, god of death.

All at once the vision was drawn from her and she felt empty inside, but the stallion still stood before her.

“Salvistar,” she whispered.

He blew through his nostrils and a great gust of wind knocked Karigan right off her feet. When she hit the ground, she could feel the throb of hoofbeats rise up through the earth. When she sat up, the stallion was gone, and all was as it had been before.