The High King's Tomb (45 page)

“Too bad he’s all the way in Sacor City with so many more worthy problems to preoccupy him than one lowly messenger.” Barrett actually reached out to stroke her braid.

Karigan knocked his hand away and heard steel drawn. Fergal stood there holding his saber at the ready. Though taken aback, she hesitated only half a moment.

“Fergal,” she said, “put it away.” When he didn’t obey immediately, she snapped, “
Now!
This one is not worth it.”

Fergal sheathed his blade, though reluctantly.

“Did you think to spill my blood, boy?” Barrett demanded. “Did you? I should call the guards in right now to throw you into a cell and teach you a lesson.”

“Lord Barrett,” Karigan said, a tight smile on her lips. An icy calm had settled over her like a mantle. The headache was gone, her absurd fear of meeting with old classmates had dissipated. “The young man’s name is Rider Duff, and I shall remind you that king’s law supersedes all others. You will not imprison him. I don’t think you comprehend how much the king values his own Riders, and he will certainly be informed of our treatment here. Never forget it was the king himself who meted out justice to Lord Mirwell’s father.”

Before the flabbergasted Barrett could respond, Karigan turned on her heel and walked out, Fergal falling in behind her. By the time they were halfway across the crowded entry hall, Barrett had regained his voice.

“Just you wait till you see Timas, bitch!” he yelled. “Then you’ll be sorry.”

Karigan shook her head in wonder at how childish Barrett sounded, and in front of all those soldiers, servants, and nobles, too.

At last, tomorrow, she could finally give Timas the dratted message and be done with it. If she didn’t see Beryl? Then she’d have nothing to report when she returned to Sacor City and it would be up to Captain Mapstone to decide what to do next.

B
eryl could not remember how she came to be here, or where “here” was. It was some sort of encampment, off in the haze around her. She hardly remembered who she herself was. She was caught in a spiderweb network of gold chains anchored to her flesh with hooks. If she moved a hand, it yanked on a hook embedded in her neck. If she shifted her leg, it buried a hook deeper into her back.

The gold chains were filament fine, exquisite, like something a noble lady would wear clasped about her neck, and Beryl couldn’t say if they were real or imaginary, only that pain, akin to a razor slashing at her skin or a dagger sliding deep into muscle, racked her body at the barest movement.

So she did not move. She sat cross-legged on the ground, hands folded across her lap, and with her whole being, with everything she was, concentrated on not moving. The sounds of the encampment fled her hearing and she saw little beyond the haze. Maybe two or three times a day someone came and slackened the tension on her chains so she could relieve herself and eat the pittance of food they gave her. Trying to move her limbs at these times was almost as excruciating as the hooks grappling her flesh, and if she wasn’t careful and moved beyond the loosed length of the chains, the hooks tore flesh, spread a whiteness of pain through her mind.

In truth, she did not even know if she bled. If the wounds were real.

She tried to envision pleasant places like lush valleys and serene lakes, her Luna grazing at pasture. These visions helped until she fell asleep. All the hooks ripped through her, leaving her in red agony until she could once again find the position that would prevent pain. She could not allow herself to sleep, and from then on recited marching cadences in her mind, all that she had learned throughout her military career, over, and over, and over.

The lack of sleep and too little food and water weakened her. She was too well-versed in dispensing torture not to know it was a matter of time before she gave in, but she had no idea what her captors wanted from her, for no one ever questioned her. Maybe it was torture for the sake of torture. At least when she utilized it, she was always after a confession or information. If she simply wanted someone out of the way, she killed them and did not make them suffer.

Once in a while she became aware of the Little Girl sitting on the periphery of the haze playing string games. Games Beryl once played when she was a child. Child? Had she really been a child once? Little Girl wove the strings about her fingers making designs until Beryl felt caught up in the strings; bound, prey in a spider’s web, only the web was gold chains, beautiful and painful.

At other times Little Girl threw pebbles at her, trying to make her flinch. When Beryl learned to endure pebbles, pebbles became rocks, and Beryl thought the hooks would flay the flesh off her bones when she reacted to being hit in the face.

Sometimes Grandmother took Little Girl by the hand and led her away, scolding her.

Beryl was chanting the infantryman’s basic half-time cadence in her mind when she became aware of two people standing on the edge of the haze.

“What are we going to do with her?” It was the gravelly-voiced man whom she was certain she knew, but she dared not divert her mind from the cadences to try and remember his identity.

“She’s strong,” Grandmother said. “We will leave her.”

“We should just kill her. Or torture her conventionally. This is not useful.”

“Now, now. Do not underestimate what you cannot see. She will break eventually, then we’ll decide if she is useful to us. I’d like to discover the source of her ability. Long ago the Green Riders were ordered to give up their magical devices. Their maker, Isbemic, was forced to destroy them. Some deceit has been at work all these centuries and I wish to unravel it.”

The voices ebbed from Beryl’s hearing. There was only the rhythm of marching feet and the pain of gold chains.

M
uch to Karigan’s amusement, Barrett was still angry enough from the previous day’s encounter that he communicated with her and Fergal using only single words and sharp gestures.

This time they were actually going to see Timas, and Barrett led them up a winding staircase. Karigan felt battle ready, almost eager to spar with her old nemesis, but she could not forget what she was and who she represented. It meant she must remain moderate in her words and actions, to always reflect well upon the king and the Green Riders. It was unfortunate to be constrained by her position, but there were other, subtle ways to nettle Timas.

She hoped Beryl would be there, beside Timas, as she’d always been for Timas’ father.

The stairway opened into another corridor just as dark and narrow as anyplace else in the keep, lit by torches that blackened the ceiling with soot. The keep had a primitive quality to it that reminded Karigan of the abandoned, ancient corridors of the king’s castle, but these weren’t abandoned.

Barrett led them to the far end of the corridor where a large door with a raised carving of a war hammer breaking a mountain sealed off a room. He opened it and entered the room, the Riders behind him.

The lord-governor’s receiving room was like a small throne room, long and narrow with an elaborate chair gilded in gold set on a dais at the far end, a hearth gaping behind it. Armor and weapons displays lined the walls, along with portraits of, Karigan assumed, Mirwells through the generations.

In fact, the current lord-governor was having his portrait painted. He stood at the throne, a foot on the dais and one hand on the throne’s arm. He held a war hammer to his breast—no doubt the clan’s ancestral weapon from the Long War days. It was wood and iron, and unadorned, the handle darkened from centuries of use and, perhaps, blood.

Natural light streamed through a narrow window and onto his face. A velvet cloak of scarlet stitched with gold thread flowed off his shoulder and draped at his feet and beneath he wore the longcoat of a Mirwellian commander, dazzling with gold fringed epaulets, insignia, cords, gold piping, and elaborate oak leaf embroidery. Medals he certainly could not have earned in a single lifetime covered his breast and made his black silk baldric sag. At his hip he wore a smallsword that, in contrast to the plain war hammer, had a finely wrought swept hilt and a ruby set in the pommel and was sheathed in a jewel-encrusted scabbard.

Karigan took in that scene, then glanced over the artist’s shoulder to compare it with the painting. The painting was well along and depicted Timas, his attire, and his surroundings in a realistic way, and yet more so…Maybe it was how the artist captured the light. There was a strong romantic feel to the rendering. Timas’ face appeared more pure, as though he was blessed by the gods, and in fact the artist incorporated the crescent moon into the window leading, which was, in reality, made up of plain panels. Timas’ hair was shown as more raven, his flesh more full of color, and most important, the artist made him appear taller than he was.

Karigan wanted to laugh, wanted to laugh at how ridiculous Timas looked in his getup, and at how little he’d grown since their school days. He was still short. She wondered what people would think of him from that painting a hundred years from now. They’d think him tall, noble, and even heroic. Timas had chosen his artist well, but truly, only his deeds in life would determine whether or not he lived up to that image.

In addition to Timas and the artist, there was an officer sitting in a lesser chair to the side, looking through papers. He was a colonel, and he was not, Karigan was sorry to see, Beryl Spencer. Where was she?

“My lord,” Barrett said, “the G’ladheon bitch is here.”

Someone, Karigan thought, ought to drop Barrett out of a tower window. The receiving room turned to silence except for the artist’s brush
swishing
across the canvas. The colonel looked up. He was a hard man with those features—they appeared chiseled from ice. Unlike Timas, his scarlet uniform bore little decoration aside from his insignia, and his sword and sheath were not ornate but serviceable looking. This colonel was no fop but a genuine warrior.

“My Lord Barrett,” the colonel said in a deceptively mild voice, “that is not how we speak of the king’s messengers.”

“With this one it is,” Barrett said. “Besides, you can’t tell me what to do, Birch. I’m lord-steward, if you remember, and you answer to me.”

The colonel’s mouth became a thin line, and it was difficult to read what went on in his mind, but Karigan knew Barrett was making a mistake by speaking to him in such a manner. The colonel did not look like one to tolerate fools, no matter their title and status.

“Barrett.” It was Timas. The Noble One spoke, but did not alter his pose.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Shut up. Birch answers to
me.
”

“But—”

“Would you like me to order Colonel Birch to shut you up?”

Barrett clenched and unclenched his hands, but he obeyed and said nothing. The colonel’s mouth curved into a cold smile.

“Leastways,” Timas continued, “we do not speak of the king’s messengers in that manner while they are present.”

Barrett sniggered.

Karigan felt Fergal stiffen beside her. Back at the inn she’d lectured him about not drawing weapons in the presence of nobles; weapons were only a last recourse when one’s life was in danger. Insults did not count. She’d made sure he knew she appreciated his gesture of standing up for her yesterday, and in fact she’d been genuinely touched, but she needed him to understand that drawing a weapon in the face of mere words was not an option.

Barrett really could have imprisoned Fergal, and in prison he would have sat till she could obtain clemency from the king, which would have involved the journey all the way to Sacor City and back. Fergal, in the meantime, would be at the mercy of the Mirwellians. He had apologized and promised he wouldn’t draw steel on Barrett unless he had to kill him. Fergal had looked as though he hoped an opportunity would present itself.

“You must excuse my steward,” Timas said. “He is newly come to his position and has yet to learn discretion in public.” He turned so he could see them, which cast his face into half shadow. The artist emitted a strangled, frustrated sound. “You may approach the dais.”

Karigan had no choice but to bow to Timas, no matter how it rankled her, so she made it the most elaborate bow she could, bordering on mockery. A smirk grew on Timas’ face.

“I’d heard you became a Greenie,” he said, his voice quiet. “Seems fitting to finally see you bow to me.”

Karigan ignored the remark. “I’ve a message from the king for the lord-governor.” Saying it that way she did not acknowledge Timas was the lord-governor.

“Barrett,” Timas said, “bring me the message.”

He stood no more than a yard from Karigan, but would not take the message directly from her, as though her mere proximity would sully him.

Barrett appeared amused that Karigan had to give
him
the message after all. Karigan kept her expression cool. Barrett broke the seal, but before he could read the message, Colonel Birch stood with unexpected suddenness and swiped it from his hands.

Barrett scowled.

Birch scanned the message. “An invitation,” he said, “to a betrothal feast.” He handed it over to Timas and returned to his work as though the invitation was of no consequence.

Timas gave it a cursory glance and dropped it on the seat of the throne. “Betrothal feast, eh? We’ll see, we’ll see.”

Colonel Birch looked sharply at Timas. A warning? Karigan couldn’t tell. The dynamics in the room were strange, very unsettling. It occurred to her to wonder, in fact, who was actually in charge here.

“I’ll write a response later,” Timas said, and he took up his pose by the throne chair again. “I’ll have it delivered to your lodging. Dismissed.”

Dismissed? That was it? She was astonished, but before anyone could say another word, Karigan gave a shallow bow and swept out of the room, not waiting for Barrett to guide them. She and Fergal were hardly two steps through the door when she heard Timas and Barrett break out in laughter, no doubt at her. She couldn’t worry about it. In the scheme of the world, their opinion of her mattered little—she had more important things to concern herself with. It was clear Timas and Barrett were still stuck in childhood. And Timas’ getup! She found herself laughing as she strode down the corridor, Fergal giving her a sideways glance.

Outside the keep, Karigan and Fergal were directed to the stable to collect their horses. With each step across the courtyard, Karigan was increasingly glad to be done with the business and would be even happier to be on the road to Sacor City come morning. Once Timas’ response was delivered to them at The Fountain, they’d be free of all things Mirwell.

In the stable there were only a few horses besides Condor and Sunny. One, a bay mare, turned agitated circles in her box stall. Condor bobbed his head and whickered, as if picking up on the mare’s distress.

“What’s wrong with her?” Karigan asked the stablehand, who was sweeping.

“Her mistress hasn’t come around in a long while,” he said. “Out on maneuvers or some such. Usually she takes the mare with her.” He shrugged. “Luna Moth pines for her.”

Luna Moth!
Beryl’s horse. Karigan had not recognized her. Why would Beryl go out on maneuvers without her? Separating a Rider from her mount was not done lightly.

“Is the horse sick or lame?” Karigan asked, wanting to ensure Luna’s separation from Beryl wasn’t due to something mundane.

“Nope,” the stablehand said. “Perfectly fit.”

Taking a chance, Karigan asked, “When is her owner due back?”

The stablehand shrugged again. “No one would tell the likes of me, but she’s been gone a good while this time.”

Karigan didn’t like the sound of that, not at all. Was Luna trying to convey something in her agitation? She went over to the mare’s stall and stroked her neck. She settled some, watching Karigan’s every move. “Don’t worry,” Karigan whispered. She gave the mare one last pat, and led Condor from the stable. There was nothing she could do for Luna without arousing suspicion. Even if Beryl was all right, Karigan could not risk exposing the Rider’s true affiliation as an operative of the king by seeming to know her or by asking injudicious questions.

She also had her orders. If Beryl could not be contacted, she was not to investigate further but to return to Sacor City and report to Captain Mapstone.

The common room of The Fountain was quiet as Karigan and Fergal finished their evening meal of stewed mutton. A few regulars sat by the hearth sipping their pints and tossing dice. Karigan mulled over the scene in Timas Mirwell’s receiving room and fretted over the missing Beryl. Beyond Barrett’s immature behavior and her natural loathing of Timas, she could not get over the feeling the one with the real power in the room was Colonel Birch. She wasn’t concerned with provincial politics, but when it came to a fellow Rider who
should
be accounted for, who should have been present in that receiving room…

Karigan had not been privy to the reports Beryl had sent to the king and Captain Mapstone after Timas assumed the governorship, nor had she ever heard mention of a Colonel Birch, but she had thought everything in the province was going well. Until the silence.

“Are we going to look for Rider Spencer?” Fergal asked.

“Our orders are to return if we don’t make contact,” Karigan replied. She was both relieved and frustrated she could not investigate further. Relieved that the responsibility would fall to her superiors, frustrated there were unanswered questions, and worried that Beryl might be in trouble. She tried to console herself with the knowledge that Beryl was tough. Very tough, in a way Karigan herself never would be.

The inn’s door opened, bringing in a draft of fresh night air and the sound of splashing water of the fountain. Everyone in the common room looked up, and in walked Barrett, followed by two scarlet-uniformed soldiers. Karigan sighed and the other patrons muttered among themselves.

Attired in fine silks and velvets, Barrett stood out like a rooster among sheep. He gave the common room a cursory glance, distaste on his face, and strode straight toward Karigan and Fergal once he spied them.

“I don’t know why Lord Mirwell has me running this trivial errand,” he said without greeting. “I am not accustomed to this.” He stopped before their table, reached into an inner pocket of his frock coat, and bent down close enough to Karigan to whisper, “He sent me because he trusts me. I tried to come alone, but Birch made those other two come along.” He barely nodded his head in the direction of the soldiers. “You will find more than one message here.”

He then straightened, produced an envelope, and slapped it on the table. Aloud he said, “That is Lord Mirwell’s reply to the king.” Barrett turned and swept from the common room to the square outside, the soldiers right behind him.

Fergal leaned toward her and asked in a low voice, “What was that about?”

“I don’t know,” Karigan replied. She had a dark thought that Timas and Barrett were playing some game with her, but Barrett’s manner was…different. And it confirmed what she was thinking in regard to Birch. Underneath the sealed message to the king, she found a folded piece of paper. She glanced around the common room. The other patrons were again absorbed in their games, but she made sure no one observed her placing the folded paper in her message satchel along with the official message to the king.