The High King's Tomb (52 page)

She thought Alton would be proud of her little speech. It had the desired effect, for the group set aside their usual preoccupations and conjured chairs for themselves to sit around the table and work. Probably nothing would come of it, but at least she’d gotten them to try.

Alton appeared to relax when she sat down with him later in his tent to tell him of her visit with the tower guardians.

“I think they need Merdigen in order to focus,” she said. “He’s their leader, and they’ve just been waiting for him, not taking any initiative themselves.”

“That means you must keep them focused till he returns,” Alton said. Then he added, “I can’t believe it’s taking him so long.”

Dale shrugged. “There’s a lot I don’t understand about these tower guardians, except they love a good party.”

Alton smiled, though it was a worried smile. “Look, Dale, I’m sorry if I’ve been distant. I just feel helpless.”

“I know. But you have to realize that I have a good idea about the danger Blackveil presents.” She grimaced at the memory of black wings and rubbed her old wound.

“Of…of course you do,” Alton said. “I’m sorry if I acted as if—”

“Apologies accepted. By the way, I asked Itharos about the eyes and faces you’ve seen. He had no explanation, except that the wall guardians were, well, acting out.”

“I guessed as much,” Alton said.

They sat there in gloomy silence until Dale couldn’t take it any longer. “I’m thinking Plover needs some exercise and Leese has cleared me for riding. And I do not intend to go anywhere near the wall, but
away
from it. North into the woods. Would you and Night Hawk care to join us?”

Alton looked like he was about to say no, but hesitated, and with a smile, replied, “Yes.”

More progress,
Dale thought with a surge of pleasure. It had been a productive day after all.

G
randmother stirred the coals of the fire with a stick, dreaming of warmer climes and missing her old hearthside in Sacor City. She thought Arcosia must have been a warm place, for the chronicles of her people spoke of lemon and olive trees, orchids and an azure sea, but never of snow and ice and the cutting wind. She wore two cloaks and a pair of mittens she knitted herself, and still she was not warm enough. Soon she and her people must descend Hawk Hill and go back to hiding in plain sight.

Most of her people had decided where to go and news would pass among them along the usual network of Second Empire and its institutions. Some of their best meeting places were the abandoned shrines of Sacoridia’s forgotten, marginalized gods found in almost every village, and there they could exchange news, distribute messages, worship the one true God, and congregate for whatever purpose may be required.

Grandmother had not yet decided where she and Lala would spend the winter. Once she had the book of Theanduris Silverwood in hand, she thought she should be near the D’Yer Wall so she could work on solving the riddle of its construction, and therefore its destruction. Her other option was to stay with a cousin in Wayman Province. Her cousin had a large house with servants and she knew she’d be warm and comfortable there. After all, she did not think there was much she could do at the wall itself during the harsh winter. There was no suitable village near it, and camping beside it was no more appealing than spending the winter on Hawk Hill. Spring would be soon enough to destroy the wall, wouldn’t it?

She just wasn’t sure, and every day she prayed for guidance. All the time she preached to her people that God would take care of them, that He would see to it the empire rose again to its glory of old. She’d heard His whispers over the summer and that’s when her ability to work the art had improved. She’d learned that a presence in Blackveil Forest had awakened, which the elders of Second Empire believed to be Mornhavon the Great, a sign that the time was at hand for the descendents of Arcosia to come into their own.

Alas, she’d had few portents since the end of summer. God had stopped whispering to her and the presence in Blackveil had faded or gone back to sleep. Everything had been silenced. Everything except her ability to work the art. Though she knew the silence was temporary, she felt abandoned.

She sighed as she gazed into the fire, oblivious to the activities of the encampment. The soldiers had been coming and going. Today was the day Sarge was supposed to bring Lady Estora to them. It would be interesting, she supposed, to meet the noblewoman, but her real intent behind the abduction was simply to distract the king and his protectors, to draw out his Black Shields, and leave the castle and tombs vulnerable.

She’d let Immerez decide whether or not to kill the noblewoman or to use her for some other, better purpose later, for he knew the workings of the minds and hearts of the nobles better than she, and what action would derive the greatest benefit overall.

She tossed some more sticks onto the fire. It sputtered and blazed and she wiggled her log closer to absorb the heat. Lala was off somewhere playing with her string and no one seemed to have need of her just now, so she sat alone with her thoughts, depressed by the cold and a lack of direction when so many counted on her.

One thought did give her pleasure: Thursgad must surely have the book by now, and be on his way to Sacor City. She smiled, thinking of the havoc her little surprise, in the form of the silver sphere, would cause the inhabitants of the castle. She almost wished she could be there to see it.
Almost.

A hawk screeched overhead. Their numbers had diminished greatly over the weeks, as most had already left for their wintering grounds. Another indication she and her folk must move. It would snow soon, and then they’d be stuck.

As she gazed at the sky and the gliding hawk, it occurred to her she could seek some guidance on where and how she should spend her winter by using the art. She ruminated over her mental list of spells and knots for something appropriate. She could not invoke God Himself, certainly, but maybe she could enhance her prayers and invite inspiration.

The series of knots she came up with was called Heaven’s Eye. It wasn’t so much a spell as an offering and focal point to open oneself to the divine. Her mother, and her mothers before her, used it when in need of guidance or when they wanted their prayers to be heard more clearly by God.

Grandmother picked through her skeins of yarn. Recently she and Lala and some of the other women had journeyed down to Mirwellton for supplies and there she visited the spinner who made a fine quality of yarn and also had a good head for dyes. Grandmother spent precious silver to replenish her supply.

She decided to use sky blue yarn. The eternal meadow, the heaven of her people, was always perceived to be “somewhere up there” above the clouds and beyond the stars, so using the color of the air seemed appropriate.

She removed her mittens and cut a length of yarn. She tied knots into it, murmuring in prayer, “Dear God, our shepherd, keeper of the eternal meadow, I seek guidance for those who are Your faithful on Earth.” And on she went, focusing only on the prayer and the formation of knots, opening herself to any sign from God.

When she finished, she held in her hand a round, knotted wad of yarn, and she threw it into the fire. The smoke would carry her words to the sky and beyond, and she waited, gazing into the flames, hoping, wishing, praying for at least some inkling of inspiration.

The flames flickered in the wind, spat sparks, separated, merged, and separated again in their elemental dance, and nothing came to her. Grandmother did not know how long she sat there, but she’d had enough. It was time to move her old bones and stretch.

But then a glowing ember caught her eye. The ember grew and grew in her vision, a depthless golden flame, and in its midst was a hot, white light with columns of flame twisting and branching within it like a forest. She wanted to avert her eyes, but did not dare.

The whiteness sucked her in until she was surrounded by it and the coiling, flaring trees. All else—the encampment and Hawk Hill—was lost to her.

It was as if a door opened then and cold blasted her and dimmed the white light, made the trees of flame dip and sputter like candle flames. She had a sense of traveling forward through a tunnel, of being touched by time and its passage. Through the opening came a faint, black breath of command:
Awaken the Sleepers.

And that was it. She was thrust from the white light, out of the vision, and found herself blinking at her very ordinary campfire. She had sought the word of God and heard it, and she now knew what she had to do. She must take a journey, and she would hasten it by traveling the ancient ways of her mothers, which would cover long distances in a short time.

She stood. Though her bones ached, she did not feel weary, but renewed, excited, invigorated. She must now speak with her people and Captain Immerez.

A
t times the marching cadences allowed Beryl to transcend pain and discomfort, the rhythms carrying her aloft from the cares of the physical world up toward the dark of the heavens and peace, till she felt nothing at all.

Only to be yanked back to Earth by her guard jangling her chains, which sent shards of glass ripping through muscle and tendon. She screamed until she was too weak to scream, and was left whimpering and drenched with sweat, the gold chains strung tautly about her body. She became conscious of the camp buzzing around her and the sweat cooling on her skin. The tremors started as her body tried to warm itself, rattling the chains anew and sending the glass shards slashing again.

Did she weep blood? Did her flesh gape open from a multitude of wounds? She did not know. She knew only hooks and chains until she could gather her focus again, begin the marching cadences all over and escape. The moments of peace were worth the violence of being yanked back to herself, though she did not know how much more she could endure.

She was about to start the cadences again when she sensed Grandmother and the man standing nearby. She willed herself to listen to their conversation.

Grandmother sighed. “Eventually it would work. She’s wearing down, but I have not the time to wait.”

“What are you saying?” The man’s gravelly voice chafed Beryl’s nerves and only her will prevented her from shuddering.

“The book is on its way to Sacor City,” Grandmother replied, “and our brothers and sisters there will see it to the high king’s tomb. I am done here. It is time I went south and awaken those who sleep.”

“Done?”
the man demanded.

“Done
here,
my friend. The work itself goes on.”

“What of us? You can’t just leave us.”

“But I must if I’m to succeed. You knew this day would come.”

Silence.

Then, “I didn’t think it would happen so soon,” the man said. “What are we supposed to do?”

“As you always planned,” Grandmother replied. “Disperse. Disperse as my sisters and brothers will, until called. Before I depart, I will release this Green Rider of her chains, and you may do with her as you wish. There is no time to see this experiment through to its conclusion.”

Beryl almost cried out her joy. To be released from gold chains! It did not matter what came next, for surely even death was better. The man cleared his throat as though to respond to Grandmother, but a commotion arose from somewhere across the encampment. Grandmother and the man left her.

Her elation turned to despair and again she almost cried out, for Grandmother had not released her. She had no other choice but to focus again on her cadences. Maybe it would be the last time she’d have to do this. Maybe Grandmother would return soon and release her. She enfolded herself in the steady rhythm of her cadences and awareness of everything around her dissipated.

E
ven as blind and disoriented as Karigan was with her head shrouded in the cloak, she guessed they were climbing into the Teligmar Hills. She had to adjust her center of balance as her mount trod a continuous incline, and she sensed many changes in direction as though following a trail of switchbacks. It made her light-headed, this movement without vision to ground her.

The air burned the raw flesh of her hands, knees, and elbows and sent feverish tingles shivering along her nerves. Would she have a chance to pick the gravel out of her skin? She was lucky not to have been crushed by Falan, if one could call being captured luck. The cutthroats had kicked and hit her into submission, but by the grace of the gods she did not think any of her bones were broken, though everything hurt.

She continued to pray she gave Estora and Fergal time to escape. There’d been too much confusion and pain to know if any of the cutthroats were sent down the road to look for them. At this point she could only guess her own fate, and none of her guesses boded well.

As she rode she felt almost as if she floated and she allowed her mind to wander away from her circumstances. Images of the plains came to her, images that now seemed so distant and out of reach; waking dreams of freedom and a gentler, more pleasant time. But she did not see the Frosts or their herds of horses or Ero the wolfhound. She saw
him,
the great black stallion walking alongside her with grace beyond that of an ordinary horse. His hooves made no sound on the earth, the breeze feathered his mane and tail little even as it stirred the tips of grasses. Then he knelt on the ground beside her, waiting expectantly for her…for her to mount?

Her horse stumbled and she grabbed at the pommel of the saddle with a cry at the pain that jolted through her. Gone were the images of the plains, lost was the stallion from her mind. Why would she seek comfort in the death god’s steed anyway?

The climb leveled out, and Sarge and his men were challenged by guards, followed by cheerful greetings of welcome. As they progressed, Karigan heard more and more activity around her, a spoon ringing on a pan, more horses whickering in the distance, voices in conversation, a hammer pounding…What was this place?

Amid the activity they came to a halt.

“Welcome back,” someone said.

“What ya got there, Sarge?”

“Get her down,” Sarge ordered.

Rough hands pulled Karigan off her horse and held her steady when she staggered. She concentrated so hard on maintaining her footing that she was surprised when the cloak was unbound and lifted from her. She blinked and squinted in the light until her vision cleared. Many people ringed her, gawking. There was Sarge and his band of cutthroats behind her and ordinary people of all ages before her, male and female, young and old, whole family groups. Sprinkled among them were the harder faces of soldiers, none wearing any device.

Muttering rippled through the crowd as a man shoved his way through, emerging before Karigan, towering over her. She stumbled backward in shock till she bumped into Sarge’s men and could go no farther.

“Immerez,” she whispered.

It was as if he stepped right out of a nightmare, glaring at her with his one green eye. The other was, just as she remembered, covered by a patch, a scar radiating out from beneath it. The waning light of the afternoon gleamed on his bald head.

Karigan shuddered with the memory of him hunting her, hunting her through the northern Green Cloak, his whip snapping behind her. Snagging her around her ankle till she cleaved off the hand that held the whip. She looked down and saw a sharp shining hook where that hand had once been.

If Karigan thought things were bad before…

“We have a problem,” Sarge said.

Immerez glanced at Sarge in incredulity. “A problem?” he asked softly.

Karigan closed her eyes and shuddered, remembering that harsh voice.

Incredibly Immerez threw his head back and laughed. It was an awful rasping sound.

Then he struck like a viper, hooking Sarge’s collar and drawing him close, almost nose to nose. Sarge swallowed hard.

“You’ve brought me a Greenie, not the lady of Coutre.”

“I–I can explain!”

“Release him, Captain.” An elderly woman appeared beside Immerez, a shawl across her shoulders and a basket of yarn over her wrist. She looked to be no one out of the ordinary, a villager or farmwife, someone’s grandmother, but Immerez deferred to her and released Sarge.

Sarge licked his lips. “We…we had the lady, sure enough, all the way to the crossroads. As we waited for your men to come down, somehow she escaped—vanished.” He glanced at Karigan. “A Greenie trick, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Immerez echoed. “Then what happened?”

“We searched and searched the area. It was confusion, but then suddenly Lady Estora comes riding through the woods on her horse and we pursued. When we caught up, she killed three of my men, not to mention Whittle earlier. This one tricked us into thinking she was Lady Estora.”

“Idiot.” Immerez raised his hook as though to slash it across Sarge’s neck. “How could you be fooled so easily?”

“Hold,” the old woman said. “Hold, my friend.”

Immerez’s hook dropped to rest at his side. “Why should I? He failed us. He lost Lady Estora.”

“Did he fail us? Really?” the woman asked. “He got her all the way to the crossroads, and I think it more than adequate.”

Everyone gaped at her like she was mad.

“Our goal,” she continued, “was to distract the king, was it not? To distract the king and those who serve him, to send them on a merry chase. It would have been nice to meet the lady, and to use her captivity to our advantage, but our first intention was to empty the tombs of its guards, yes?”

Immerez calmed and nodded, and Sarge let out a breath of relief.

Karigan’s own thoughts were awhirl. They kidnapped Estora just to distract the king? To empty the tombs? What were they up to?

“
Who
are you?” she asked the woman.

The woman did not answer, but withdrew a pendant from beneath her chemise. It was crudely made of iron, but shaped into a design Karigan knew well: a dead tree.

“Second Empire,” she whispered. She glanced at the onlookers. “You’re all Second Empire?”

Some drew out pendants like the woman’s, and others raised their hands, palms outward, to show the tattoo of the dead tree.

The old woman smiled kindly to her as she would to a child. “Just a few of us. There are more, many more out in the world, my dear.”

“And
you?
” Karigan demanded of Immerez.

But it was the woman who answered. “There have always been those not of the blood who serve the empire. Arcosia, after all, was a land of many lands, and such cooperation was common.” Then more brusquely she added, “And now it is time for us to disperse. No doubt the king’s men will find this place in good time. Go on now,” she said to her people, shooing them away. “Finish packing and leave as soon as you are able.”

Many bowed and murmured, “Yes, Grandmother,” and wandered away.

The woman said to Immerez, “You may do with the prisoners as you like. They are no concern of mine.” She then walked away, among her people.

Memory of Fergal on his knees next to the Fountain Inn came to Karigan. He’d been sickened by the sight of an old woman. He’d seen in her, or around her, “all the worst things.” Was this her? It had to be.

Immerez addressed his men, “Get to work. We leave in the morning.”

When Sarge started to peel away, Immerez grabbed his cloak with his hook. “Not you.” Sarge blanched. “Did you send anyone looking for the lady?”

“Yes, sir. Clay and three others. If anyone can find her, Clay can.”

Immerez released him. “Good. If he catches her, we may stand to profit after all.”

When Sarge strode off, it was just Karigan and Immerez facing one another. He rubbed his cheek with the curve of his hook.

“Well, well,” he said. “After all this time. How often I imagined what revenge I’d take if the opportunity arose. Sarge doesn’t realize just what a gift he’s brought me.”