The High King's Tomb (44 page)

T
he next morning, Fergal declared over breakfast he was back to normal and claimed he saw nothing unusual when he gazed upon Karigan, though he seemed hesitant to look her way, like he might see something he didn’t want to. He was steadier on his feet and his appetite had returned with a vengeance. As he stuffed yet another flatcake into his mouth, Karigan hoped nothing would trigger his newfound ability—whatever it was supposed to be—and make him sick.

After breakfast they readied their horses and rode from the square, which was empty and forlorn without the market, but for the pigeons lurking about and warming themselves in the sun that bathed the statue. Karigan felt obligated to give Fergal some warning of her past with Timas Mirwell, but she did not want to overplay its significance. As the horses plodded along Mirwellton’s muddy main thoroughfare, which led to the keep, she explained that she and Timas were classmates at Selium and had not been friendly.

“In fact, he and his cronies made life miserable for a lot of students, mostly the commoners who were at Selium on scholarship. They felt powerless against a lord-governor’s son.”

“Is he the one you beat up?” Fergal asked.

“What? How do you know that?”

“Mel told me.”

Condor’s hoof sucked in the mud.

“Ah, of course she did. Well, I didn’t exactly beat him up. I defeated him in a bout of swordplay. Soundly defeated him. It was very satisfying.” She smiled at the memory, then hastily added, “Don’t bring it up or even allude to it while we’re in the keep. Don’t bring up his father, either.”

Fergal thought for a moment. “Oh, aye, the traitor.” He ran his finger in a cutting motion across his neck and grinned.

“Er, yes, the traitor. In fact, now that I think of it, it’s probably best if you don’t say anything at all. When we see Timas—
Lord
Mirwell—it’s probably wise if you just stand there and look, well, Riderly.”

Fergal scowled at her, but did not argue.

They rode on in silence. When they reached the portcullis of the keep’s curtain wall, the scarlet-clad guards, who knew the insignia of the king’s messengers, ushered them through without challenge. They were now truly in Timas’ domain and Karigan’s sense of loathing increased.

They rode across the courtyard into the shadow of the keep. The structure was simple, purely a fortress with high walls and narrow windows, all stone, and without embellishment. Unlike the king’s castle, Mirwell Keep changed little from its original design over the centuries. It was made for war and Clan Mirwell had not deviated from its militant heritage. While some provinces did not possess even a provincial guard, Mirwell kept a sizeable army, or had until after the old lord-governor’s attempt to dethrone King Zachary. By order of the king, Mirwell’s militia had been diminished to a skeletal version of its former glory, and would remain so until the new lord-governor proved his loyalty beyond a doubt.

They halted and dismounted before the steps leading to the keep’s entrance. A soldier took their horses while another stepped from the entrance to ask their business.

“A message for the lord-governor from the king,” Karigan said.

“Follow me, please.” The soldier turned smartly and trotted up the stairs.

Karigan hesitated and took a deep breath. The sooner this was over, the better. It was her duty, she reminded herself, and her real mission was not so much to hand over the message to Timas Mirwell but to make contact with Beryl Spencer. She straightened her shortcoat, threw back her shoulders, and climbed the steps at her own pace. She would not be cowed as if she were still a schoolgirl.

Stepping into the keep was like entering a cave, especially when the great doors closed behind them, shutting out the daylit world. A combination of torches and lamps offered smoky illumination, but the dark lingering in the corners was as heavy as the stone walls surrounding them. Just as well. There wasn’t much to look at—a few suits of armor along the walls, faded tapestries recounting the glorious and bloody history of Clan Mirwell, and shields painted with coats of arms of the vassals that were protected by Clan Mirwell.

The soldier led them across the entry hall and a short distance down a corridor. Karigan closed her eyes for a brief moment to collect herself as the soldier knocked on a door. Without waiting, he entered.

“Idiot!” a voice shouted from within. “Wait until I give you permission.”

The soldier backed out and reddened. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

“You will be if this isn’t important.”

The soldier stiffened, swallowed hard. “My lord, messengers from the king.”

A pause, then, “Very well. Out with you, Clara.”

A feminine giggle trickled out into the corridor and shortly a girl, a few years younger than Karigan, emerged from the chamber, tying her bodice as she left. From her dress, coarse and plain, Karigan presumed she was a servant. She frowned.

“Let them in, stupid,” came the harsh voice from within.

With a sympathetic look to the Riders, the soldier gestured they should enter the room. When they did so, he closed the door behind them. A surge of panic threatened to overtake Karigan until she forced herself to calm, and only then did she realize that the young man in front of them, who was buttoning up his trousers and tucking in his shirttails, was not Timas at all, but one of his friends from school.

“Barrett,” Karigan murmured. He was sharp featured, tall and lanky, and had grown, or had attempted to grow, a sparse beard. She wasn’t surprised to find him dallying with a servant. Rumor in school was that he had coerced many a poor girl into his bed with promises of his eternal commitment and of support for her family, but had only ruined her reputation and left her on her own if she became pregnant. One rumor claimed he’d told a girl to, “Drop the brat off a cliff for all I care.” Karigan believed it.

“That’s Lord-Steward Barrett to you, Messenger,” he said.

Steward? The thought of him in so important a position disturbed Karigan, but it explained his being here in this office with its fine furnishings.

He squinted at her. “Do I know you?”

“Very unlikely, my lord.” Karigan prayed he wouldn’t ask her name.

“Then how did you know me?”

“The soldier.” Karigan didn’t like to lie, but right now her loathing of Barrett overrode her sense of duty. She did not want him to remember her. It was a small lie anyway, and wouldn’t hurt anything. “The soldier told us.”

“Oh.” Barrett sat in his cushioned chair, crossing his legs and looking relaxed and self-important. He gazed at her expectantly.

“We have brought a message from the king for Lord Mirwell.”

“Let’s have it then,” he said.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but the message is written in the king’s own hand for Lord Mirwell’s eyes only.”

Barrett sat up, his expression one of displeasure. “But
I
am Lord Mirwell’s eyes.
I’m
his steward.”

“Duty requires I present the message to—” and here Karigan faltered, almost saying “Timas” “—to Lord Mirwell.”

“Is it urgent? Life or death?”

“I do not know what the message contains, but I was not given to believe it was urgent.” Truly, she knew the message was of little importance, for this exercise was really about giving her a chance to contact Beryl.

Barrett sat back again, tapping his fingers on the armrest, his gaze calculating. “Then you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

“What?” Karigan was flabbergasted. No one had ever sent her away before a message, a message from
the king,
had been delivered.

“Tomorrow,” Barrett said. “You can’t expect Lord Mirwell to come at your beck and call. He’s busy. He can’t see you today.”

No lord-governor or his staff had ever treated her this way. “But—”

“If it’s not urgent, and if you won’t leave it with me, you can try back tomorrow.”

Karigan tried to maintain her composure. “Very well. Good day.”

“Wait a moment,” Barrett said before she could escape. “Are you sure we’ve not met?”

“Quite sure,” Karigan said.

“Pity. Perhaps we’ll get to know one another before you return to the king. It
is
customary for the lord-governor to offer lodging to the king’s messengers—”

“We’ve already lodging in town. Good day, my lord.” Before he could stop her again, she gave him a cursory bow and retreated through the door. She hastened through the keep and out the entry as fast as decorum allowed. She headed straight for the horses, being held for them in the courtyard. Once she and Fergal were off the keep’s grounds, she sighed. Then she muttered some curses worthy of the sailors she grew up around on the docks. Fergal knew enough to stay quiet.

“That,” she said, “was another of my schoolmates.”

“So you
did
know him,” Fergal said.

“Unfortunately. He was in Timas’ circle, of course.” She couldn’t get over the sensation of slime coating her skin after being in Barrett’s presence. “And unfortunately we’ll probably see him again tomorrow.”

Tomorrow she hoped to conclude their business here and return to Sacor City. Tomorrow she hoped she’d see Beryl. If she didn’t, she did not know how to ask after her without arousing suspicion. But that was tomorrow’s worry.

The next day found Karigan and Fergal mounting the steps to Mirwell Keep behind the same soldier as yesterday. An ache had begun building in Karigan’s head throughout the morning. The thought of seeing Timas was bad enough but Barrett, too? As they crossed the entry hall, she glanced around, hoping to spot Beryl. Surely Beryl would have heard by now that two Riders had visited the keep. In hopes word would travel, Karigan mentioned to the soldier in a conversational way where she and Fergal were staying.

Once again they were led to Barrett’s office, but this time he did not shoo a serving girl out. He appeared to be actually working, poring over some papers on his desk.

“Ah, you’ve returned,” he said.

“We wish to deliver Lord Mirwell’s message.”

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

“May I remind my lord that this is a message from the king?”

“You may, but unless you’ve changed your mind about leaving the message in my care, you’ll have to come back tomorrow. Lord Mirwell cannot receive you today. He is busy.”

Karigan bridled her annoyance and managed to take leave of Barrett without exploding. He was worse than most bureaucrats she’d met. She paused in the entry hall, almost tempted to search out Timas herself, and maybe find Beryl in the process, but one did not do such things when one was a Green Rider.

On their third visit to the keep, Barrett rose when they entered his office. “Well, well, the diligent Greenies are back.”

Karigan wanted to smack the smirk right off his face.

He circled around her, closer than felt comfortable. She stiffened.

“Are you sure,” he said, “we haven’t met? What’s your name, Greenie?”

Damnation,
Karigan thought. She considered giving some false name, but that was not as simple a lie. She’d be found out. It would be dishonest and dishonorable to the king and the Riders. “Karigan,” she said, not willing to give him her full name.

“Karigan,” he repeated softly, standing to her side, close enough that she could feel his breath against her cheek. She forced herself to stare straight ahead. “Karigan. You know, that seems awfully familiar to me, an unusual name like that. What is your family name?”

Karigan wanted to squirm, run out, but by force of will she stilled herself. “G’ladheon, of Clan G’ladheon.” She did not offer him her service as was customary and polite.

Barrett stepped back and barked out a laugh. “Oh, very good! How amusing. I remember you now. Selium. The good old school days. How could I forget? You were the little bitch that took Timas out in swordplay. I wish you could have heard all he said about you later that day, and all the things he swore to do to you if ever he saw you again. Unfortunately you ran away before he could carry out his revenge. But here you are now. How very interesting.” Barrett’s expression was one of pure delight. “We all said we’d help in his revenge.”

Karigan turned to face him directly; looked him in the eye. “I am here on king’s business to deliver Lord Mirwell a message.”

“How it must gall you,” Barrett said, “to be in so subservient a position.”

“It is my
honor
to serve the king.”

Barrett chuckled, and Karigan figured he had little use for “honor.” “Timas, Lord Mirwell, is going to be pleased to see you again. Oh, yes, he most surely will. But not today.”

“You’re sending us away again?” Karigan asked in disbelief.

“Are you so anxious to see him?” Barrett moved in closely again.

Karigan rested her hand on the hilt of her saber. It centered her.

“Tsk, tsk,” Barrett said, not missing the movement. “Seems the Greenie is feeling threatened. I might have to ask you to remove your saber. And perhaps other things, as well…”

“I’d remind the lord-steward,” Karigan said, her voice now frigid, “that Green Riders answer only to the king, and the king does not take kindly to disrespect toward his own messengers.”