The High King's Tomb (57 page)

The stallion tossed his head, his forelock falling over one eye, then stepped onto the bridge. She walked beside him, observing nothing different about the white world as she did so, but when they reached the center of the bridge’s vast deck, the far end appeared darker, murky, like a storm cloud was forming there. She glanced uncertainly at the stallion. His nostrils flared and he bobbed his head.

“What—” she began, but he nudged her with his nose and she stumbled forward. The message was clear: he wanted her to cross the bridge into the murk. “You aren’t coming with me?”

The stallion took one step back and bowed his head.

Karigan licked her lips and hesitantly walked forward, toward the cloud engulfing the scrolled ends of the bridge. She took a final glance back at the stallion—he stood silent and still as a statue, just watching her.

She had to trust him. She had to trust he had guided her to someplace she could be useful and not into another strange world. Before she could talk herself out of taking those last few steps, she strode the rest of the way into the dark cloud.

A
burst of wind from behind thrust Karigan the last steps across the bridge and into darkness. She tripped and landed in a pile of refuse.

“Ugh,” she said, pushing herself up from the rotting vegetables, egg shells, and…fish guts?

From the shadows a raccoon hissed at her for disturbing its repast. She rose to her feet, brushing fish scales and other disagreeable bits from her clothes and laughed; laughed in joy at the stench, the dark of night, the sounds of voices somewhere nearby, the gold of lamps and candles in windows, flurries swirling around her. She’d left the white world behind and returned to one full of life, scents, and textures.

She tugged Willis’ cloak closer around her to fend off the cold, realizing that while this was a vast improvement over the white world, she hadn’t the faintest idea of where she was. Was she even in Sacoridia? At the moment she stood in a tiny courtyard behind someone’s house or business, occupied mainly by crates, casks, and rubbish.

Business,
she decided.

The opportunity arose to discover her precise location in the person of a portly and harried woman carrying a bucket from the back door of the establishment.

“Excuse me,” Karigan said.

The woman squawked, liquid sloshing over the brim of her bucket. “Who’s there?” she demanded.

“Could you please tell me where I am?” Karigan asked.

It was apparently the wrong thing to say.

“You get outta my dooryard at once, you no good vagrant!” the woman screamed. “I won’t have your ilk picking through my rubbish no more! Now git!”

Karigan did not move fast enough to satisfy the woman for the contents of the bucket were flung on her. She tore from the dooryard and onto the street, the woman hollering after her. Unfortunately the liquid that doused her smelled of boiled cabbage. She hated cabbage.

At least, she consoled herself, the woman spoke the common tongue and it had that neutral, mid-Sacoridian lack of accent she associated with Sacor City and its surroundings.

She ran down the narrow street past silent shop fronts until she finally came to a signpost beneath a street lamp that confirmed her thoughts. She stood on Fishmonger Street. She cried out in triumph, for the adjoining street was the Winding Way—she was in Sacor City. She still had a ways to go to reach the castle, as Fishmonger Street was in the midsection of the city. Why in the names of the gods did the bridge she crossed leave her in a refuse pile on Fishmonger Street?

The gods obviously had a foul sense of humor. Literally.

She sighed and turned up the Winding Way. It was uphill, though gradual. Her wet hair was beginning to stiffen in the cold. Maybe some kind soul would give her a ride in their cart, but between the stench she must emanate and the hour, she doubted her chances were very good.

Karigan trudged all the way up the nearly deserted street, taking shortcuts where she could. It was so much easier when she was astride her Condor. It did not help that her various aches and pains from before the white world reawakened, making her walk more of a trial than usual, and it really did not help when the snow-slick cobbles underfoot caused her to fall.

When finally she reached the castle’s outer portcullis gates, she wanted to kiss them. Instead, since they were closed for the night, she rapped on the door to one of the portcullis towers. Someone moved inside and slid open the peephole.

“What ye want?” a gruff voice demanded.

“It’s Rider G’ladheon,” she said.

“
What?
Where’s yer horse?”

“Long story that has no time for the telling,” she replied.

The weariness in her voice must have convinced him for he did not press her further. Instead he stepped outside with a lantern to look her over.

“Yup,” he said. “I recognize ye, but yer not looking too good.” Then he crinkled his nose. “Not smelling too good neither.”

He called up to his fellows in the tower above, who in turn called down to the guards on the other side of the gate. They opened the pedestrian door in the gate and ushered her through, locking the door behind her, keys chiming on a huge ring.

“Cold night,” the guard with the keys said. Then he snuffled. “You smell something rotten, Rider?”

Karigan shook her head and hurried over the drawbridge that crossed the moat. At one time, King Zachary had kept both gates open as a symbolic gesture to his people, but that had changed when the grounds were infiltrated by undead wraiths over the summer. She did not think a closed gate would have deterred them, but Colin Dovekey insisted at least the outer gate remain closed during the night as a precaution.

Guards challenged her several times as she made her way to the main castle entrance. When she reached it and was admitted into the castle, she stood some moments just inside, both relieved to have made it back so quickly, even if by unconventional means, and unsure of what to do next. Report to Captain Mapstone, she supposed. That meant venturing back out into the snow and cold and trudging to officers quarters.

She’d just rest a minute, she decided. She was weary and everything was a tad hazy. She slid into a nearby chair, oblivious to the guards grimacing and fanning their noses. One cracked the doors open to let in fresh air.

Feverish and chilled, shivering and sweating, Karigan dozed off where she sat.

When someone prodded her shoulder, she awoke in mid-snore, and an inrush of awareness—the foul odor, her sore head, lamplight glaring in her eyes—assailed her. Before her stood a Weapon. Or somewhat stood. He leaned on crutches.

“Rider?” he queried.

“Fastion?”

He inclined his head.

Then it all came back to her, the reason for her extraordinary journey; its urgency. And she’d been sleeping! “The tombs—” she began.

Fastion nodded down a corridor. “This way. There is no time to lose.”

Karigan stood, feeling like every bone ached. “You know?”

He gave her that stony look that once caused her to nickname him Granite Face. “Of course I do not know, but you arrived without a horse, or so the guards say, and without your saber. You are wearing a Weapon’s cloak, which is curious in itself. And where you are concerned one may expect trouble.” Fastion led the way down the corridor, swinging along rapidly and with ease on his crutches.

“You aren’t going to say anything about how I smell?” Karigan asked as she hurried to catch up.

Fastion merely spared her a look of disdain. When she asked him about the crutches, he said he’d acquired his wound during the ambush on Lady Estora.

“She’s fine,” Karigan said. “At least she was when I saw her in Mirwell.”

That brought Fastion to a halt and he squinted at her. Then he muttered something unintelligible and set off again.

He took her deep into the west wing to a chamber she had never seen before, a long room lined with black banners and black onyx statues of stern warriors. There were tables set in orderly rows and she took the place for the dining and meeting hall of the Weapons. Five awaited them as if anticipating their arrival. She recognized Brienne Quinn, though it had been a while since she had seen the tomb Weapon, but the others were unknown to her. They formed a half circle around her and Fastion.

“Rider G’ladheon has come to speak of the tombs,” Fastion said.

What?
she thought. No “how are yous” or an offer of tea? She repressed a sigh and decided to get straight to the point and leave the Weapons to it so she could find her own bed and rest. It seemed a very good idea just then to let someone else shoulder the kingdom’s problems.

“The book the king has been seeking to fix the D’Yer Wall,” she said, “has been acquired by Second Empire. In order to read it, they must put the book in the light of the high king’s tomb. If they decipher the book, they may use the information to destroy the wall. They kidnapped Lady Estora to empty the tombs of its Weapons and make their task easier, and they may be here even now.”

She fully expected the Weapons to launch into action, but they stood as still as the statues lining the wall.

“Food and drink for Rider G’ladheon,” Fastion ordered and one Weapon peeled away. “And a uniform and sword.”

“One of mine should fit,” Brienne Quinn said.

“What?” Karigan asked, but her query went unheeded as servants were summoned.

“Lennir, see to the tombs,” Fastion said, and the third Weapon strode from the chamber.

Meanwhile, the fourth Weapon—she didn’t give her name—removed Karigan’s odorous cloak and started stripping off bandages to examine her wounds.

The fifth Weapon departed to seek out other available Weapons, but with the possibility of intruders on the grounds, few would be able to leave the king’s side. Soon servants arrived with cold sausage rolls, cheese, and tea.

“She’s feverish,” the Weapon tending her informed Fastion. “The head wound appears to be festering.”

He gazed at Karigan with some intensity, then told the Weapon, “Do the best you can with it. She can go to the mending wing later.”

After fresh dressings were wrapped around Karigan’s wounds, she said, “Don’t you want to hear about Lady Estora?”

“Later, after we learn what is happening in the tombs,” Fastion said. “You told me she was fine, and that is good enough for now.”

Karigan had to admire his singleness of purpose. She picked at a sausage roll, but found it did not appeal to her. The tea did. It wasn’t long before Brienne returned with a uniform and longsword. She stood before Karigan. Karigan set her teacup down.

“What? What do you—”

“There are too few of us,” Fastion explained, “and you have been in the tombs before. You know the law. Therefore you must go as one of us.”

Karigan gaped. Only Weapons and royalty were permitted in the tombs, as well as the caretakers who lived out their lives there. Anyone else caught breaking the law by entering the sacred territory beneath the castle was doomed to remain in the tombs forever, to become caretakers themselves and never see the living sun again. A couple years earlier Karigan and a few others were permitted passage through Heroes Avenue by king’s will alone.

“But—” Karigan began.

At that moment, Lennir returned at a run. “The doors to Heroes Avenue are barred,” he said, not at all out of breath.

Fastion cast his granite gaze on Karigan.
“Dress.”

“But—”

“You are our sister-at-arms,” Brienne said more kindly. “Ever since the usurper tried to take the throne from King Zachary have we regarded you as such.”

Karigan could only blink.

“And for your actions since,” Fastion said. “Otherwise we would not even consider clothing you in our black because of all it represents. Few in the history of the land have been accorded such honor and regard outside the corps of the Black Shields.”

Maybe the fever and exhaustion skewed Karigan’s hearing. Maybe the stallion hadn’t brought her to her own world after all, but to a slightly altered version of it.

“I’m a Weapon now?”

“No,” Brienne said, “that requires years of specific training and sacred ceremonies. You are more of an honorary Weapon, but with that honor comes responsibility.”

“Such as our need for you now,” Fastion said.

Before Karigan could protest, and right there in the hall of the Weapons, Brienne and the other woman, Cera, helped her strip out of her borrowed Rider uniform and change into black; first the black linen shirt with intricate patterns embroidered onto it with ebony thread, then the leather trousers, followed by the padded doublet. They buckled hard leather guards around her wrists, but agreed gloves would not fit correctly over her bandaged hands. As she had with her Estora disguise, Karigan kept her own boots. They were, after all, black, and very similar in design to that of the Weapons’.

The two women watched as Karigan detached her brooch from her Rider uniform and clasped it to her doublet. An odd light filled their eyes. Did they see the brooch as any Rider would or did they only see her handling an invisible object or maybe a piece of costume jewelry? She knew Weapons were well aware of Rider brooches, and that they distrusted magic as did most Sacoridians, but their regard was somehow of a different nature, on a more intense level.

Overall, Brienne’s uniform was a good fit, and so was the longsword she strapped to Karigan’s waist.

“I don’t know how good I’ll be at sword work,” Karigan said, raising her bandaged hands.

“If things are well, you won’t need to draw a sword,” Brienne said.

The man Fastion sent to find more Weapons returned with only a half dozen.

“The main entrance to Heroes Avenue is closed to us,” Fastion said, after explaining to them what was happening.

Karigan wondered if they’d have to ride all the way out of the city to the secret entrance, the Heroes Portal, that lay in the side of the hill on which both city and castle stood.

“Our investigation will begin in the Halls of Kings and Queens anyway,” he continued. “With luck, that entrance is not known to the enemy and has not been barred.” He then raised his hand and clenched it into a fist. “Death is honor!”