The High King's Tomb (6 page)

“Karigan, you are the only person I know who can turn a pleasant excursion to a museum into a swordfight.”

Karigan sighed. Dressed now in her green uniform, she sat with her feet tucked under her in the chair next to Mara’s bed. It had been a huge relief to pry the corset loose from her body. It felt like her rib cage was still trying to spring back to its normal profile, and the whalebone ribbing had left deep indentations in her flesh.

Mara rubbed her chin. “Good aim with the shoe, though.”

Karigan had been very pleased with the throw herself, and felt no remorse over the loss of the shoe. What she hadn’t liked was how vulnerable she felt when at the mercy of the thief, which, she realized, was most of the time. She had not been able to defend herself while trapped in the dress, and he could have killed her at his pleasure. Her fingers went to the hollow of her throat where his rapier nicked her, and felt the scab. She never wanted to feel that vulnerable again. Ever.

Mara pushed back into her pillows, her gaze distant. “He sounds like the Raven Mask.”

“Who?”

Mara smiled. “The Raven Mask, a stealthy gentleman thief who prowled Sacor City some years ago, stealing select items like rare paintings and precious jewels. It’s said he especially favored entering the chambers of ladies to steal their fine jewels even as they slept in the night. He would leave some token for those he favored.” She glanced significantly at the velvet glove Karigan had dropped on the bed. “Some ladies were said to leave their windows wide open with gems sitting on their dressing tables in hopes he would come to them in the night, and they’d offer him other, ahem, favors. If caught and confronted, he was always polite, but he always managed to escape. He was known as a master swordsman.”

“He…the thief, he was good.” Karigan said.

“It was believed the Raven Mask retired, or was finally killed by an enraged husband, but more rumors point to him retiring to some country estate and a manor house filled with the riches he had accumulated throughout his career. Come to think of it, he’d be an elderly fellow by now.”

“This fellow was
not
elderly.” His hair had held no gray, but his mask hid too much of his face for her to otherwise judge his age. He certainly moved like a younger man.

Mara shifted her position on her bed. “What was the document he stole? Did you ever find out?”

“Something from the Long War days written in Old Sacoridian. The museum attendant called it ‘priceless,’ but apparently it has little market value among collectors. It only has value to historians I guess, though the attendant said they never made much sense out of it.”

“If it was the Raven Mask who took it,” Mara said, “it must have some value.”

Karigan thought back to the thief facing the museum patrons and attendants, holding his rapier in one hand and the document in another. “He called it ‘useful.’”

Mara chuckled. “Maybe it’s directions to a secret treasure. Sounds like the sort of thing the Raven Mask would steal.”

Karigan did not know, nor did she really care to, and if she ever encountered the man again, she wouldn’t give him a chance to explain. No, she wouldn’t kill him, but she would overcome him, and he could do all his explaining to the constabulary.

“And how did Braymer Coyle and his stern chaperone react to this eventful end to your outing?” Mara asked.

Karigan groaned. Braymer had become very solicitous, and had continually stolen looks at her nearly exposed bosom even as she spoke with the constables about the theft. “Let’s say that Braymer has probably set aside his monastic vows for good.” Yes, he had been much more interested in her after the eventful museum visit, in a most clinging and annoying way, as if he suddenly discovered she was female. Her sword work seemed to have excited him.

“Master Styles was unhappy.” During the carriage ride back to the castle, it was almost as if the man had turned to stone. He had refused to speak to her, or even to look at her. “No doubt his report to Braymer’s father will not prove favorable.”

“You don’t sound displeased,” Mara said.

Karigan smiled smugly. “I’m sure the Coyles will find a gentle Rhovan lady more to their liking for Braymer.” As for her father’s stake in this? Served him right. The whole set-up had been a disaster from its inception.

She stood and stretched, reveling in her freedom from corset and dress.

“Leaving so soon?” Mara asked.

“Thought I’d see to some chores before dinner.”

Mara picked up the glove from her bed and extended it to Karigan. “Don’t forget this.”

Karigan frowned. “No, you keep it. I don’t want to see it again.” It reminded her too much of her vulnerability.

I
n the late hours of night, long after the lights in the homes of Sacor City’s more respectable citizens had winked out, two men met in a seedy inn in a rundown section of the lower city. They sat apart from the other patrons, away from the sooty lamps and the hearth fire, allowing shadows and the haze of smoke to obscure their features.

A third man sat in the darkest corner by himself, a tankard of ale before him and a hood drawn over his head. His back was to the two men who sat opposite each other at a rickety table, but if he listened closely, he could discern their conversation over the drunken carousing of the inn’s other patrons.

“My master has obtained what you seek,” Morry said. He was an older man in common garb, but his refined speech revealed he was more than he appeared.

“Hand it over,” said the second man in a gruff, no-nonsense voice. He wore scarred fighting leathers and a plain cloak, a serviceable sword girded at his side. Like Morry, there was nothing exceptional about him, but those who were keen observers knew that by the way he carried himself he was a soldier, or had been at one time. A soldier with no device, no sign of allegiance.

“Tut, tut,” Morry said. “Show me the payment.”

There was a grunt and the thud and clink of a bulging purse dropped on the table. The man in the corner smiled and sipped his ale.

“Here is what you seek, as requested,” Morry said, followed by the sound of the leather folder scraping across the rough surface of the table. Many moments of silence followed while the soldier examined the document within.

Another grunt. “Excellent. This is the one we wanted.”

“A satisfactory transaction, then,” Morry said.

Leathers creaked and the man in the corner imagined the soldier leaning across the table. “I was instructed to arrange more work for your master upon the acceptable completion of today’s assignment.” He strained to hear the soldier’s lowered voice. “It will be risky, but there will be commensurate reward if he is successful.”

“Tell on,” said Morry, “and I shall convey your wishes to my master.”

The soldier outlined the proposal. The man in the corner listened avidly. “Risky” was an understatement. It was much more than simple theft, much more, but the man had to admit he was intrigued by the challenge and by the revival of the old and once-honored custom it represented.

Morry must have been just as flabbergasted, for it took him a long while to respond. Presently he said, “I shall tell my master all you have said. You mentioned he would be rewarded commensurately?”

“Of course.” The soldier named an outrageous sum, then added, “Half up front, half upon successful delivery. We need to know his decision as soon as possible.”

The man in the corner toyed with the silver moon necklace sparkling on the table before him, a thrill of excitement making his heart pound harder. He already knew the answer to the proposal. Yes, he certainly did.

F
rom Ullem Bay to the shores of the dawn, we weave our song through stone and mortar, we sing our will to strengthen and bind. We shield the lands from ancient dark. We are the bulwark of the Ages. We stand sentry day and night, through storm and winter, and freeze and thaw.

From Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn, we weave our song in harmony for we are one.

We are broken.

From Ullem Bay to—

Losing rhythm.

We shield the lands—

Broken. Lost.
Despair.

Hear us! Help us! Heal us!

Do not trust him.

We do not trust. We forbid him passage.

T
he stone facing of the wall changed aspect with the passing light of the sun. One moment the stone was a bright gray-white, reflecting the sunlight back into the world. In another instant, its rough texture emerged in relief, dimpled by shadows that revealed every contour of its topography; every pit, every crag, every fissure. It looked primal, as if risen from the Earth, formed by the forces that built mountains and divided canyons, or perhaps shaped by the hands of the gods themselves. Yet the simpler truth was that it had been built by mortal men, desperate mortal men, who had deeply feared what lay on the other side. As the sun drifted farther to the west, the wall clad itself in shadow, megalithic, mysterious, and threatening.

Alton D’Yer vowed to uncover the secrets locked in the wall so that which had withstood the assault of time and weathering for over a thousand years would not crumble and unleash the evil it had been built to hold at bay. Yet the wall would not give up its secrets so easily.

“That should do it,” Leese said, tying off the last of the bandage she had wrapped around his hand. Then in a tone that was simultaneously light and pointed, she added, “I trust you won’t start banging your head against the wall next.”

Alton glanced at both hands, now swaddled in linen, and frowned. “Thank you.”

The mender sighed and picked up her pack of supplies. “If you need me again, you know where to find me.”

Alton nodded and watched her as she strode off toward her tent. She had moved down to this secondary encampment by the Tower of the Heavens after he had raged at the wall one too many times. The first time had left him with a broken toe. This time he had banged his hands bloody against it, and though he’d struck with mindless force, he’d managed not to break anything, which, he supposed, was a good thing.

Frustration brought the rages on, rage he never knew he possessed. It had been a couple months since last he stood within the tower, one of ten situated along the vast expanse of the wall. The towers once housed keepers, ancestral members of his own clan, who watched over the wall’s condition and the enemy beyond. All too acutely he remembered the fateful day when he had stepped out of the tower with his fellow Green Riders, never knowing he’d be forbidden access the next time he tried to enter.

He had traveled to Woodhaven to report to his father, the lord-governor of D’Yer Province. Swift orders had come to Woodhaven from the king that Alton should return to the tower and learn what he could about the wall and repairing it by speaking to Merdigen, a magical presence that resided in the tower.

The orders were a formality. Alton had planned to return to the wall with or without them. The wall obsessed him, crowded his dreams and his waking thoughts. Now was the time to fix the breach that weakened it, now was the time to strengthen it. Now, before Mornhavon the Black appeared in Blackveil Forest again.

Only the wall wouldn’t let him pass. No matter how he bent his mind to it, no matter how he pleaded with the guardians who inhabited the wall, they refused him. And it brought on the rage.

The tower had admitted him and the other Riders before. Why would it deny him now?

He knew the soldiers, even those at the main encampment near the breach, gossiped about him, about his obsession. Had he gone mad like his cousin Pendric, who now existed as a guardian within the wall?

The wall’s shadow swallowed his camp and the forest, and soon all would be submerged in darkness. Now that it was autumn, the hours of daylight were shrinking, and it made him feel as if he were running out of time. No one knew how far into the future Karigan had taken Mornhavon the Black. No one knew when their time line would merge with his, and his presence would again threaten the world. This was why Alton had to find the answers
now.
He had to take advantage of the time Karigan secured for him, and for everyone.

Before thoughts of Karigan could cloud his mind, he pushed them out—forcibly—and traced the contours of the stone wall with his fingertips.

“I will understand,” he promised the wall. “I will enter the tower, and I will understand, and nothing will hold me back.”

Sometimes the fevers came on Alton during the night like a sudden gale as the residue of poisons racked his body. Leese guessed that the poisons would eventually seep out of his blood and he’d return to normal, but he wasn’t so sure. He hadn’t given himself enough time to fully heal after his ordeal in Blackveil, and now he writhed in his bedding, the dark forest haunting his dreams. Sickly black branches snaked out of the shifting, ever present mist and stabbed at his flesh. He heard the calls of creatures that hunted him. And he dreamed of
her.

He remembered her in the ivory dress, and how her long brown hair had fallen softly about her shoulders. He recalled the blush upon her cheeks, and the paleness of her neck, of her throat. She had spoken, but he could no longer hear the words, nor could he remember the sound of her voice. She had betrayed him. Karigan had betrayed him into nearly destroying the wall with false promises.

Traitor!

A need came upon him, even as he slept, to send a message to King Zachary and Captain Mapstone to warn them there was a traitor in their midst. Then as morning broke, and so did his fever, he would remember that Karigan was the one who risked herself to move Mornhavon into the future. Maybe it had really been a trick she played, part of some nefarious scheme. Maybe…

Birds squabbled in the trees outside his tent, and the crisp morning air flowing through the entry flap chilled the sweat clinging to his skin. He shivered violently, pulled his blanket over his shoulder, and laid there for some minutes, trying to work things out in his mind. Karigan confused him. He remembered so clearly that she had come to him in the forest, had soothed him and helped him find his way into the tower, yet was it really her? He’d been so very ill. Probably delirious. The power of the forest could have manipulated things, could have made him believe he was seeing and hearing things that were untrue.

He sighed. That had to be it. He could not imagine Karigan…No, she would not betray him, or her country. The forest had given him lies. He closed his eyes, remembering how angry he had been with her when they parted and she had not understood why. He could still see her bewilderment and her hurt. She had wanted to talk to him, but he had refused. What must she think of him?

They had been friends, though Alton had once hoped for more. He had probably ruined even the friendship.

He started to drift back into sleep as the blanket warmed him. His night had not been a restful one, and now peace lulled him. But just as the morning sunshine beating through the canvas walls of his tent and the bustle of camp faded away, a new clamor jolted Alton awake.

Outside, soldiers raised their voices in cheerful greeting. “Rider!” one exclaimed.

Alton rolled off his cot and, wrapping his blanket about himself, peered through the flap of his tent.

A Rider, indeed.
He grinned.

Garth Bowen handed off his mare, Chickadee, to a soldier when Alton stepped out of the tent and called to him. The big man waved and sauntered over. “Alton, well met!” He reached out to shake with Alton, but Alton ruefully held up his bandaged hands. Garth swept an assessing gaze over him. “I would say you are looking well, but I’m afraid I cannot.”

Alton could only imagine how bad he looked. Then a breeze carried to him a whiff of eggs, sausages, and bread frying over a nearby fire. His stomach growled. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“Just some hardtack on the road.”

Alton caught hold of one of his servants and requested food be brought to his tent. One of the benefits of being the lord-governor’s heir was having servants in attendance, even at an encampment. Once inside the tent, Garth’s considerable self took over one of the campaign chairs. He stretched out his legs before him and slumped comfortably in his seat.

Alton, meanwhile, pulled on a rumpled shirt and a pair of trousers that had seen much wear.

“Have you brought news from the king?” Alton asked.

“Not exactly, no. I’m here because the king and Captain Mapstone are anxious to know what progress you’ve made with Merdigen and the wall.”

Alton dropped into the chair opposite Garth’s and frowned. “None.”

“None?”

He shook his head. “I can’t even enter the tower. It’s like…it’s like it’s gone deaf on me.”

Garth stroked his upper lip and looked like he was about to say something when Alton’s servant entered with heaping platters of sausage rolls, sweet bread, and scrambled eggs. Another servant followed bearing mugs and a pot of tea. Garth rubbed his hands together in glee before tucking in. Between mouthfuls, he caught Alton up on some of the news in Sacor City.

“Several new Riders have come on,” he said. “I’ve never seen the captain so happy—she’s practically bouncing.”

Alton smiled at the improbable image. “Why so many new Riders now?” For years beyond count, the call had brought in so very few.

“She thinks the First Rider’s horn has somehow awakened them to the call.”

“Ah.” When Tegan came to Woodhaven with the king’s orders, she had told him of the Rider artifacts Karigan had found. He wished he could see them, but for now he had more important business to attend to at the wall. “New Riders—that’s good to hear.”

“Ty is in his glory, taking the new ones on, while the rest of us are left to sweep and scrub more rooms in the Rider wing.” Garth rolled his eyes. “Happy I am to get away from the dust, cobwebs, and mouse turds. Oh, and all the wedding euphoria.”

“Wedding euphoria?”

“That’s right,” Garth said. “You can’t have heard yet. King Zachary announced he is marrying Lady Estora Coutre.”

Alton dropped his slab of sweet bread in shock. “What? Really?”

Garth nodded. “King Zachary saw the necessity of appeasing Lord Coutre, what with the uncertainty of the wall and all.”

Alton laughed as he fumbled after the sweet bread. So Lord Coutre had turned down the D’Yer proposal that Alton wed Lady Estora. He found it amusing, and enormously freeing. So all along, crafty Lord Coutre had turned down every other lord in this land and others, taking a chance he’d win the ultimate prize for his daughter: the high king of Sacoridia himself.

No longer was the prospect of marriage being held over Alton’s head, at least for the moment.

“All of court is atwitter in anticipation,” Garth continued. “Heralds and some Riders have been sent to spread the news among the populace. Noblewomen are buzzing about it and all they can talk about are wedding gowns and flowers, and even the elder ones among them giggle and blush like girls.”

“Has a date been set?”

“The king has the moon priests working on a forecast for an auspicious date. Won’t be before spring, I don’t expect.”

Alton leaned back in his chair considering the suitability of the match, a mug of tea warming his hands through the bandages. “I wonder what took so long for the king to agree, for surely Coutre put his bid in some time ago.”

“Gossip has it there was some other woman he had his eye on—a commoner of all things. Fortunately he’s come to his senses and is marrying a proper lady as he ought.”

“And strengthening his ties with the eastern lords.” Secretly, Alton sympathized with the king if the gossip was true. Hadn’t he himself desired Karigan, a commoner? Expressing that desire, however, would have displeased his clan. It was bad enough, they thought, that he served as a Green Rider and not, say, as an officer in the elite light cavalry. He had since explained to them about the Rider call, and because his clan had been founded on an alchemy of stonework and magic, they were more accepting of Rider magic than others would be. Especially if it meant his own special ability would help him mend the D’Yer Wall.

As the mound of sausage rolls and eggs disappeared, mostly into Garth’s mouth, their conversation came back to the purpose of the Rider’s visit.

“So what’s the problem?” Garth asked. “Why can’t you enter the tower?”

“I wish I knew. The wall—it won’t talk to me.”

“That’s odd,” Garth said, scratching his head. “I thought you had it all figured out—talking to it.”

“I do. I mean, I did, but it’s ignoring me now. It’s just like dead, cold…stone.” Alton knew how bizarre it sounded, but for a brief time, he had lived within the wall, within the stone, and had learned its stories, had heard and felt the pulse of the song that bound it together, aware of the presences of the guardians who also resided within. To him, the stone was anything but dead.

Garth sipped his tea with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I wonder…”

“What?”

Garth cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. “I assume if the wall doesn’t allow you into the tower, that it won’t let me in either, but it might be worth trying.”

Alton had long ago come to the same conclusion as Garth that the tower had closed access to all but, as the Rider suggested, it was certainly worth seeing if it were in fact true.

The two men polished off breakfast and left the tent for the outdoors. The morning sun was quickly warming the air and burning off dew. It cast a bronze glow onto the face of the wall. When they reached the tower, Garth craned his neck looking up and up and up…And he could keep looking up till he snapped his neck. The magic of the wall made it seem to stretch all the way to the heavens, when in fact the actual stone base of it stood only ten feet high. Yet the magic portion of the wall was as durable as stone, and looked just like it. There was no distinction between the two.