The High King's Tomb (42 page)

D
ale toddled into Tower of the Heavens the next day with a dull headache. She was hungover from last night’s party, but not nearly as miserable as Alton, who drank freely of his aunt’s whiskey and danced the remainder of the night away, even into the morning hours. The poor fellow came to her at breakfast with a pinched expression on his face and looking a bit green around the edges to ask if she was ready to check the tower. She smiled. It was worth it, worth it to see him let loose. She would find another excuse for another party somewhere down the line, but maybe remind Alton not to imbibe so freely. Maybe.

Because she was distracted by these happy thoughts, or by her own hangover, she nearly fell over when she stepped into the tower chamber to find a figure clad all in black floating menacingly above her with its caped arms spread wide like bat wings. She screamed and plastered her back to the wall.

The figure descended to stand on the floor and two pale hands emerged from sleeves to pull the cowl away from its face.
His
face. It was framed by silver hair and a beard like a shipcat’s ruff. His nose was long and his eyes so pale they were nearly white.

“Who?” she demanded. “Who are you?”

He swept his cape around in a manner that could only be called elegant and said, “I am Itharos of Glacea Toundrel, that is Tower of the Ice, seventh east of Ullem Bay. I am watching the cat.”

For several moments Dale could only stare. “Of–of course. You are one of Merdigen’s mages.”

“I do not belong to Merdigen.”

“No, I mean, you are a member of his order. The same one he belongs to.”

“Ah, yes. I see. I am. Did he not tell you of me?”

“He, uh, did not give me any names, just to expect company.”

“So like him,” Itharos said with a dramatic sweep of his cape.

“I’m Dale Littlepage.”

“Yes. Merdigen’s message mentioned you, by name I might add, and that you would visit from time to time. Now Rider Littlepage, I have missed much as I slumbered and Merdigen’s message was terse, but I sensed during my passage that all is not well with the wall. You’d best begin with King Eridian. He just ascended the throne.” Itharos conjured himself an ornate and comfortably cushioned chair fit for a king, and with a flourish he threw his cape over his shoulders and sat, waiting expectantly for her to begin.

Dale swallowed hard. King Eridian? She didn’t remember a King Eridian…

Fortunately Itharos was forgiving when it came to lapses in her knowledge of history. Eridian, it turned out, was the first of the Sealender kings.

“He did come of the sea,” Itharos said, “a seafarer and fisherman from the east, and he was called the King of Fish by those of noble blood who thought themselves loftier than he. Accordingly, he took as his personal heraldic device a flatfish of gold so the nobles would never forget who he was.” Itharos laughed heartily. “And I expect they did not forget. By all accounts his reign was off to a good start.”

Dale didn’t know how many Sealender kings there had been, but she knew how the line had ended, with the beginning of the Clan Wars, and Dale filled him in.

“Disappointing,” he said, stroking his beard. “All I know of the Hillanders is that they, too, were of the sea, but from the more tame Ullem Bay.”

“Sacoridia has done well under their rule,” Dale said, and she continued to relay to him all the major events that led to her sitting in Tower of the Heavens with him.

“Fascinating,” Itharos said. “A pity we were not awakened sooner or that the corps of wallkeepers was not maintained. A pity, but not really surprising.”

“Why?” Dale asked.

“Human beings are naturally flawed when it comes to time and memory. The past is forgotten, or it is believed bad things will not recur, and people become bound in their current problems. That which afflicted the grandfathers of their grandfathers is a distant, dim thing, and not as important as present concerns, no matter how trivial.”

“You sound like someone who knows,” Dale said. She found Itharos more to her liking than grumpy Merdigen. He bore himself with greater dignity, which made him seem more like a great mage ought to be.

“You must keep in mind,” he said, “that I’ve existed for centuries in one form or another. I have seen the forgetfulness time and again.” He tapped his chair’s arm with a long fingernail. “The greatest mistake that I’ve seen in all my time, however, was forgetting the upkeep of the wall, and the danger it holds at bay.”

He straightened suddenly in his chair. “Someone comes.”

Dale glanced around, expecting Alton or another Rider to pass through the wall where she had entered, but Itharos rose and strode to the center of the chamber next to the tempes stone, drew his cowl over his head, and did the menacing, floating thing again.

Someone did enter the tower, but not through the wall, rather emerging from beneath the archway to the east. The figure was clad in oilskins and wore a squall hat like sailors used in foul weather. The figure, a woman, Dale thought, was drenched and left puddles with each step she took, her oilskin boots clomping on the stone floor.

She paused before Itharos and looked up at him, water runneling off the rear brim of her hat. She stared, and he floated for what seemed like forever, then they both broke out laughing.

Itharos drifted to the floor and threw his cowl back, and stretched his arms wide. “Boreemadhe, my dear! I am so happy to see you.”

The two hugged. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?” the newcomer said. Even with Itharos standing on the floor, she was very short, almost squat.

Itharos put his arm around her shoulders and brought her to Dale. “This is Boreemadhe,” he said, “and Boreemadhe, meet Rider Littlepage.”

“Pleased,” the woman said. “I am the guardian of—”

“Don’t tell me,” Dale said. “Tower of the Rains.”

Boreemadhe clapped, spraying illusory drops. “Yes! Tower of the Rains. So nice to be
here,
where it is dry.” She proceeded to peel off her oilskins, which vanished as she dropped them to the floor. Last off was the squall hat, revealing a round elfin face and eyes that creased to crescents when she smiled. Underneath her oilskins she wore a fisherman’s sweater, the cuffs rolled up, and a long woolen skirt. “I feel I must have moss growing behind my ears.”

Itharos checked. “No, my dear, you do not.”

“Are we the only ones who’ve arrived?” Boreemadhe asked.

“So far.”

“Then perhaps you can catch me up on what this is all about.”

A full tea service appeared on the table, as well as another chair exactly like Itharos’, and the two sat to tea. Dale wished it wasn’t just illusion as she wouldn’t mind a cup herself. She was enlisted to once again fill in the missing gaps of history, with occasional comments from Itharos. She wished Alton could be here to do the telling, and she hoped her long absence wasn’t driving him mad.

When she finished, Boreemadhe said, “I did notice the guardians were most, erm, grumpy, during my passage. Off-key, as you will.”

Itharos nodded solemnly. “A most apt description. There is anger, resentment, and fear among them. I should hate their song to unravel altogether.”

Boreemadhe nodded emphatically. “That would be the end, wouldn’t it?”

“The end?” Dale asked.

“The song,” Boreemadhe said, “keeps the wall whole, strengthens it, gives it life, so to speak. As it stands, the song’s harmony is fragmented, the rhythm chaotic from some quarters. Think of the guardians as a chorus. As the disharmony spreads, as it inevitably will, the wall will weaken.”

“The song,” Itharos added, “is becoming a lament of sadness, and presently the guardians are on a path of despair and self-destruction.” He closed his eyes, his hand outstretched, wavering, as if there was something he felt on the air. “Darkness and despair.” He shuddered and opened his eyes.

Dale excused herself and told the two she’d return the next day. As she sank into the tower wall, she heard them carrying on like old friends after a long separation. As if, she thought, the imminent danger to the wall, and to them all, were a passing thing.

T
he seeker ghosted through the woods, weaving between spruce and pine, wafting toward the canopy on updrafts only to spiral downward and continue its journey through the shadows, a tail of crimson and gold light streaming behind it. Thursgad, riding his weary horse, followed it; had followed it for days upon days through impossible and wild terrain as the glowing red ball illuminated the most direct path to its destination.

“Direct” did not mean “easy,” and the hungry, exhausted man on his stumbling steed bemoaned the fact that the seeker rarely led him along roads. Down ravines, up ledges and hillsides, through tangle of wood, yes, but not along any civilized path. Not that there were many roads or maintained pathways in the thick of the Green Cloak.

Hunger and exhaustion were meaningless to the seeker. It existed for the sole purpose of leading Thursgad to the book of magic Grandmother desired. Her other spell, tucked in its purse, hung from his belt. Maybe his imagination got wild now and then, but sometimes he swore he felt the thing hungering, hungering for his blood, pulsating against his hip. It made him shudder. He followed Grandmother’s explicit orders not to handle it or look at it. Not until he had to.

The seeker flared. It had brought Thursgad to the edge of a clearing. He half dismounted, half fell from his horse, and tied the reins to a branch, then dropped to the ground and crawled to the very edge of the woods, staying in the shadows.

A cry of surprise almost passed his lips and he put his hand to his forehead thinking he must be fevered and seeing things. A grand manor house of stone and timbers rose up before him, occupying well-ordered grounds of lawn and garden. He blinked his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but the place did not vanish. What was it doing here in the middle of the wilderness? He scratched his head. There’d been no roads, no paths, and this was no simple woodsman’s cabin.

The seeker circled his head like a biter looking for blood, impatient for him to move on. He swatted it away and continued to survey the scene before he stepped from his concealment. He did not want to be caught by the estate’s inhabitants.

He saw no signs of life except for threads of smoke twining into the sky from a few of the chimneys. The manor had quite a few chimneys, as a matter of fact. The seeker buzzed around his ears.

“Aye, I’ll go,” he muttered to it, and crept across the clearing.

The seeker led the way to a side entrance framed by a trellis of rambling rose vines. The roses were done for the season, their fruits fallen and shriveled. Sweat streamed down Thursgad’s face as he imagined the vines closing down on him, wrapping around him, the thorns biting into his flesh.

Should’ve run away to Rhovanny,
he thought.
Could’ve joined a merc company there.

The seeker flitted beneath a green door and Thursgad paused, looking around before reaching for the door handle. It was crafted to look like the looping rose vines and he shuddered, but all he felt when he grasped it was cold wrought iron. He cracked the door open and peered inside. No one was to be seen, just the seeker bobbing in the air, waiting for him. He stepped inside and found himself in a large kitchen. The seeker sped off.

Thursgad had to run to catch up, passing ovens and tables and pantries, then into a formal dining room with a lengthy table. He had no time to pause to take in the details of the rich furnishings for the seeker floated out of the dining room into a wide corridor. There it hovered for a moment.

Entry hall for main entrance,
Thursgad thought. Sunshine flowed in through the windows that framed the grand doors. Opposite the doors, stairs climbed to upper levels. Across the hall from the dining room was a parlor.

Which way?
he wondered.

As if in answer, the seeker pulsated and whisked up the stairs. Thursgad placed one foot on the first step and his hand on the railing when someone behind him cleared her throat.

“Look, sister, we’ve a guest just in time for tea.”

“I’m not blind yet. I can see him very well for myself.”

Slowly, very slowly, Thursgad removed hand from the railing and foot from the step, and turned around. Two elderly ladies stood there in the light of the entry hall gazing at him. The taller thin one in green scowled at him and the shorter, plump one, wearing a sort of orange dress, smiled kindly.

“He is pungent,” the thin one said.

“Yes, and dirty.”

The thin one cast the plump one a withering look. “Pungency suggests dirt, sister. Letitia will not be pleased, but he’s no time to bathe. Tea is ready
now.
”

Thursgad glanced around for this Letitia to appear, but she did not.

“We shall overcome his scruffy appearance,” the plump one said, “and we shall be brave in the face of Letitia’s wrath.” She walked toward him. He flinched as though she carried some weapon, though of course she possessed nothing of the sort. She took his arm and started to lead him into the parlor, her sister following behind them, cane tapping on the floor. “Now, young man, you must tell us all about yourself.”

Thursgad sweated as he’d never sweated before. The porcelain teacup and saucer, decorated with dainty flowers, were slippery in his hands. He sat perched on the edge of a plush chair and sun rippled through the leaded windows, catching in his eye. The two ladies, one of whom was called Miss Bunch, and the other Bay or Miss Bay or Miss Bayberry—it all rather confused him—kept up a chatter that filled his ears with noise. He wondered where the seeker was, how he’d allowed himself to be drawn into the parlor for tea, and how he would get away from the ladies and find the seeker. Would he have to kill them?

“Pardon?” he said when one addressed him and he hadn’t been paying attention.

“Your name, young sir,” the Bunch one said. “And where you are from. You never told us.”

“Thursgad. My name’s Thursgad.”

“Such a strong name, isn’t it Bay?”

The thin one shrugged, her expression sour. Thursgad sweated.

“And where are you from?”

“Mirwell Province.”

The two women exchanged glances. A droplet of sweat rolled down Thursgad’s nose and plopped into his tea.

“I thought his accent was of the western parts,” Miss Bay said.

“It is so long since we’ve had a visitor from that region. I’m surprised you recognized it.”

Miss Bay’s expression turned to one of superiority and she sipped her tea. Thursgad still hadn’t touched his.

“And what brings you this way?” Miss Bunch asked.

Thursgad cleared his throat, trying to think fast. “Hunter. That is, I’m hunting.” Pleased with his own answer, if not the delivery, he relaxed a tad.

“With a sword?” Miss Bay demanded. “It’s not even a hunting sword.”

Thursgad looked down as though seeing his sword for the first time. It was his serviceable sidearm issued to him when he first joined the Mirwellian provincial militia.

“Uh, for–for brigands,” he said. “Aye, brigands.”

“Sensible,” Miss Bunch said to her sister. Then, “Young man, you’ve eaten nothing. Poor Letitia will be most affronted if you don’t try some of her delicious treats.”

Thursgad’s stomach grumbled in response. It seemed like he had not eaten in days, so he took a tea cake into his calloused hand, the lines on his fingers and palm etched with dirt and pine pitch, and ate all the buttery, sugary goodness. Next he tried a finger sandwich and then a slice of pound cake. He tried this and that until there was little more than crumbs left on the platter, the sisters watching him in amazement. He brushed powdered sugar from the bristles on his chin, and swigged down the last of his tea.

“Must not be a very good hunter if he’s that hungry,” Miss Bay said acidly.

“My, but one forgets how much nourishment a young man requires,” her sister replied. “He must stay for supper.”

“S–supper?” said Thursgad. Sweat trickled down his temple anew. Supper sounded good—he could eat a couple moose about now. The tea dainties only served to whet his appetite. But this was complicating his mission. What of the seeker? He fingered the pommel of his sword, wondering if he should just kill them now and get it over with.

But he couldn’t. They were old and harmless. Well, Grandmother was old, but not harmless. Looks could be deceiving. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to draw his sword.

“He needs a proper cleaning,” Miss Bay said. “I will not sit at table with him until he has bathed.”

“Agreed, sister. Hunting is dirty business, is it not?”

Before Thursgad knew it, the ladies led him to a bathing room with a hip tub already brimming with steaming water.

“We shall rummage through father’s old trunks to find you something suitable to wear,” Miss Bunch said.

Thursgad reflexively glanced at his clothes, stained and caked with mud, damp with sweat.

“Enjoy,” Miss Bay said, and she swung the door shut.

He listened at the door as their voices receded.

“Where is Letitia?” Miss Bunch asked.

“I believe she is sweeping upstairs,” her sister replied. “The library needs particular attention.”

When Thursgad could no longer hear the ladies speaking, he found himself tempted by the bath. He dipped his hand in the hot, fragrant water. It would feel so good to be submerged in it, to let him warm his bones and relax his muscles. He sighed, the mere thought bringing on a sensation of pleasure.

Then he recoiled. Was he some kind of fool? Had the ladies bewitched him somehow with their chatter and tea cakes? What kind of place was this that appeared like a magic castle in the middle of nowhere? Not to mention he normally detested bathing.

Thursgad slipped his hand through his lank, greasy hair.
Bewitched. I’m bewitched.

As much as the bath and thought of supper beguiled him, he must not fall any further under their power. He must complete his mission at all costs.

He squeezed his eyes shut and drew a deep breath. Then resolutely, he turned his back on the bath and headed to the door. He cracked it open to make sure no one was about. The corridor was empty. He tiptoed out, retracing his way through corridors hung with portraits of knights and noble persons and past rooms with fires lit in cobblestone hearths.

When he found himself back in the main entry hall, he glanced from side to side, and then trotted up the stairs to the second floor. The place was unnaturally quiet. Maybe the sisters had gone to take naps. That’s what old ladies did, wasn’t it? But what of the servants? There was at least one—Letitia. And how did these ladies maintain the estate without the help of men? Yet he’d seen no sign of a single servant. Were they invisible or something?

Thursgad snorted at the idea and decided not to worry about the servants. If he saw any of them, he’d kill them.

The upper floor was lined with doors. Would he have to open each one to find the seeker? He despaired of the time that would take, and the increased chance of discovery. If the sisters found him, he’d have no choice but to kill them, too, and he really didn’t want to.

The first door he opened revealed a comfortable looking bedroom with a canopied bed. The second door opened into another bedroom. When he opened the third, a cacophony of geese blasted him. He slammed the door shut, a few feathers drifting into the corridor.

“By all the hells,” he muttered, shaken. Then he saw the inscription on a brass plaque mounted on the door. He could read very little, but he knew these words:
Goose Room.
He scratched his head, and moved on.

He had his hand on another doorknob when the seeker swept down the corridor and circled and bobbed around him like a dog happy to see its master. It then flew back the way it had come and Thursgad charged after it.

The seeker paused before a door then darted through the keyhole. Thursgad hoped the door was not locked because there was no way he was going to fit through that keyhole. He twisted the doorknob.
Not locked.
Carefully he pushed the door open, hoping it wasn’t another goose room, or something worse. There was an inscription on the door, but he didn’t know the word.

All was quiet within, much to his relief, and he stepped into the room, which contained the most amazing array of books he’d ever seen. He’d never been in a library before, and never knew so many books existed. Walls of books. Books that would take a lifetime to read. If he could read, or at least read well. As Thursgad stood there, surrounded by leather bindings dyed in reds and greens, yellows and blues, with their silver and gold embossed lettering brought to gleaming life by the sunshine that filtered through a window, he felt very stupid, ashamed he was uneducated. Sarge was always calling him a “rustic bastard,” and here Thursgad knew it was true.

There were other objects in the room: a telescope pointed out the window, a fancy harp embedded with shiny jewels, a scrimshaw carving, and a ship in a bottle, all set out like artifacts in a museum, or so Thursgad could only guess, for he’d never been in a museum either.

The seeker, however, was not interested in any of those things. It bobbed up and down and pulsated to a deep red to catch Thursgad’s attention, then floated to a book and turned it aglow in red.