The High King's Tomb (65 page)

She walked down corridors with determination in her step. She would do all she could to separate the two, and pray that Lady Estora soon returned so wedding plans could resume. Of course, then she must deal with Lady Estora and the matter of the secret they shared. She shook her head. Nothing was ever easy.

When Laren found herself at the threshold of the throne room, she was jarred from her thoughts when she looked inside and saw the long chamber cast in ethereal light by the presence of Eletians.

She tugged her shortcoat straight and strode down the runner. The three stood before King Zachary cloaked in silvery white with subtle hues of light blue, like a wintry day with the sun glaring off snow.

When she came abreast of them and bowed before the king, she recognized them as the same three who had come before, including Prince Jametari’s sister Graelalea at their head. Colin and Sperren both attended the king, and seemed to blink in the light of the Eletians.

“Greetings, Laren Mapstone,” Graelalea said.

Laren nodded her head in respect.

“The Eletians have come to bid us farewell,” Zachary said.

The idea of the Eletians leaving saddened Laren, for they brought a touch of magic and mystery into the sometimes dour existence of castle and city, and it would be odd for their encampment, which had become such a fixture down at the city gates, to vanish. She hadn’t expected the Eletians to stay indefinitely, but she’d miss them nevertheless, and whatever their motivations for coming to Sacor City to sit on their doorstep, she did not think the people as a whole bad at heart. Just enigmatic.

“Yes, by dawn tomorrow we shall be gone,” Graelalea said.

“Why?” Laren blurted, and she cleared her throat, embarrassed.

Graelalea smiled. “The days wane and grow cold, and we wish again to dwell beneath the boughs of our woods. My brother sees a frigid winter ahead, fiercer than in some years past, and so wishes to leave now.”

“So he is not sending you into Blackveil?” Zachary asked.

“Not yet,” Graelalea replied. “We shall bide our time in Eletia and, if I can, I will turn his mind against the idea over the winter. My feeling, however, is that you shall see us again in the spring, and that is when we’ll attempt entry into Blackveil.”

“Foolishness,” Colin said.

“Perhaps. And while I cannot always know the workings of my brother’s mind, he reveals only that which he wishes to be known. It may be that he sees something no one else can in attempting such an endeavor.” Graelalea shrugged and sunlight rippled down the folds of her cloak. “My brother bids you all a winter of warmth and fire glow. He is gladdened the book of the wall has been found, though he advises caution, for the building of the wall was accomplished with dark and arcane craft you may not be able to replicate. Nor wish to.”

“We will decide what to think of it once the book is translated,” Zachary said.

“That is as it should be. My brother, by the way, says the Galadheon averted a great disaster.”

“She is the one who captured the book from the enemy,” Laren said.

“Ah.” Light glinted in the Eletian’s eye and she smiled as if she knew something they did not. “For you, Firebrand, some final words from my brother:
She comes.
”

With that the Eletians bowed and turned and left the throne room, taking lightness with them.

T
he Weapons kept up a relentless pace, but Goss was up to it, and the road was open and wide. It was no wild dash through the unbroken woods this time, and with a complement of deadly warriors all around, Amberhill had no fear of attack from hungry pirates or any other danger, human or not.

Hooves pounded on cobbles and across bridges and the company kept the Rivertown ferry busy with several crossings on the Grandgent. Though the town was sizeable, Willis did not pause, but led them onward, for it was hours before sunset.

When they did stop, whether at a campsite or in a village, there was always adequate provender, for which Amberhill was grateful. He did not starve on the return journey, and the Weapons did not spare wood when it came to building campfires. It was all a satisfactory improvement over his journey west, but he looked forward to returning to his house in Sacor City. Except it would be much emptier without Morry. He reiterated to himself his vow to properly bury and honor his friend, his father in spirit. When he got the chance, he’d retrieve Morry’s body and return with it to his estate and place it in the family vault. Morry deserved no less.

The Weapons rode in silence and spoke little when encamped. When they did speak, it usually was not to Amberhill, unless necessary. He did not take it as a personal affront, for he recognized it as their way; the black they wore was only a physical manifestation of the bond among the warriors and a barrier to outsiders that none but those within their circle could bypass. One of those who did not wear black but who appeared to be in that elite circle was Beryl Spencer.

The Weapons respected her Mirwellian rank and called her Major Spencer, though as Amberhill understood it, she was actually a Green Rider. In evenings she sparred with some of the Weapons, the clash of swords pure and musical to his ears as he watched the bouts from his side of the campfire. They moved between the flames engaged in the dance of steel and though graceful, the dance was without flourish. For one like himself who embodied grand gestures, their deadly precision and stark movements were a revelation. And the Rider-spy-major was on a level with the Weapons in ability.

Truth be told, the woman made his skin crawl. Though she was icy to him, indifferent, he couldn’t help being morbidly fascinated by her because she was the antithesis of the kind of woman he was accustomed to. Pliant warmth, softness, and curves, yes, that was what he knew well and desired. Not an icicle with an undercurrent of menace who would take as much delight in severing his hand as gazing at the most beautiful work of art. He shuddered.

The G’ladheon woman also made him shudder, but in a different way, with her unearthly powers.

Once he returned to Sacor City, he’d seek out the familiar warmth of the ordinary women he craved, which would melt away any frost remaining on him from being in Beryl Spencer’s presence and extinguish the memory of the G’ladheon woman vanishing into the night.

The next evening, when Willis called a halt, they found the field he wanted to camp in already occupied by a tent and a wagon overloaded with furniture and other household goods, all of fine quality, though some of it appeared water damaged. The two owners of the tent sat before a fire in chairs that would look more fit for a royal dining hall than in a field.

A kettle hung over their campfire and the two sipped out of teacups and nibbled on scones. Oddly, there was no team of horses for the wagon to be seen, nor any guards or servants tending the ladies who were elderly. Amberhill could not see how they’d managed to set up camp, much less traveled with their belongings with no team to pull the wagon. Unless some thugs had stolen the horses. But not their possessions? It did not make sense.

Willis must have thought it odd, too, for after a courteous greeting, he said, “Have you some trouble we could help you with? Are you stranded?”

Curious, Amberhill busied himself with his gear nearby so he could listen.

“Trouble?” the plumper of the two asked, then she chuckled. “Young man, you can’t even begin to imagine the trouble we’ve had; could he, sister.”

Her companion snorted in derision, then sipped from her teacup.

“However,” the first continued, “we are well cared for, and certainly not stranded, but we do thank you for your concern. Perhaps you will join us for some tea?”

At first Willis declined, but the lady said, “Surely the others can set up the camp without your help, can they not?”

“Well—” Willis began.

“Even a king’s Black Shield is permitted a tea break now and then, hmm? Sit down, young man. We cannot imagine what brings you all to be here along the Kingway, but it is propitious, isn’t it sister.”

The thin one nodded. “An unexpected opportunity.”

The way Willis cocked his head, Amberhill could tell he was too intrigued now to refuse. With a slight bow to the ladies, he took a chair that appeared to be waiting just for him.

“And you, too,” the thin one said, pointing her cane right at Amberhill.

“Oh, yes,” the plump one said. “Come, young man, sit with us.”

At first Amberhill was too startled to move, but he set his gear on the ground and sat next to Willis. The sisters poured tea and passed around scones, and introduced themselves. They called themselves Penelope and Isabelle Berry, or Miss Bunch and Miss Bay, respectively. They carried on the conversation quite well by themselves, speaking of the winter to come, their sudden need to move, and the rough paths they had to travel by.

Amberhill found himself quite under their spell, feeling as though he were in some manor house’s parlor rather than out in the elements sitting before a campfire. By Willis’ transfixed expression, he could tell the Weapon was quite taken, too.

“How, may I ask,” said Willis, “did you find yourselves on the road?”

“You may ask,” Miss Bay said, “but it is an unusual story and the source of great woe.”

Miss Bunch nodded fervently. “It began with a sneak thief that in our poor judgment we allowed into our home.”

The clatter and voices of Weapons setting up camp fell away as the sisters told an incredible story of how the thief, whom they thought a hunter lost in the woods, was caught stealing a book from their father’s library by a servant named Letitia, and in his struggle to escape, he broke one of their father’s “things.”

“An arcane object,” Miss Bay said. “Do you understand?”

Willis nodded slowly, his eyebrows drawn together. Amberhill didn’t think the Weapon had taken more than one sip of his tea once the ladies began their tale.

“That’s when it happened,” Miss Bunch said. “That’s when our lovely house, built by our father for our dear mother, was destroyed.”

Both sisters appeared on the verge of tears.

“How?” Willis asked.

“Well, it was the pirate ship, of course,” Miss Bay replied tartly.

“Pirate ship?”

“Nasty pirates.”

Miss Bay then described, with comments inserted by her sister, how the sea rose in their house despite its location far from the coast, and flooded it and poured out the windows, and how the ship materialized to full size inside the house, destroying it utterly.

“Not a chimney left standing!” said Miss Bunch with a mournful sniff. “It will be a long while before the house mends itself.”

“If it can, sister,” Miss Bay said. “It isn’t like the simple leak we had in the west gable roof last spring.”

“True, but I have faith. I
must.
”

A silence passed before Miss Bay said, “We had to hide from the pirates. We hid and hid. They would not have been in the bottle in the first place had they not been very bad.”

“Bottle?” Willis’ voice cracked as he asked the question.

“Why, yes,” Miss Bay said. “Weren’t you listening? We said it was an arcane object. Really, I thought the Black Shields grasped such concepts.”

“I—”

“In any case, young man,” Miss Bunch interrupted, “you will want to warn the king that pirates now infest his forest. This is why we are glad we met you, so you could warn the king.”

“
Nasty
pirates,” Miss Bay reemphasized.

“We don’t know how many, do we, Bay?” Miss Bunch said, and her sister shook her head.

If Amberhill had not slain the pirates himself, he’d have thought the two sisters seriously mad. He twisted the blood ruby ring on his finger.

“Pirates…” poor Willis muttered.

“Is he dense?” Miss Bay asked Amberhill.

“No, my lady,” he replied. “But I think you need not worry about the pirates anymore.”

Willis glanced sharply at him, and the ladies turned intent gazes on him.

“Is that so?” Miss Bunch asked.

“Look at the ring,” Miss Bay whispered, pointing.

Amberhill raised it into the light so they could get a better look at it. The fire made the ruby glow with red and orange flames, the dragon seeming to slither around his finger. He covered the ring with his other hand, withdrew it from the light.

The sisters stared at one another, then turned their gazes back on him.

“There are oddments of jewelry,” Miss Bunch began.

“And then,” her sister continued, “there are objects that take some responsibility to own.”

“If we are not mistaken,” Miss Bunch said, “that ring is one such object. If the wearer should own it for the sake of owning it, the consequences could be terrible. But if the wearer accepts the responsibility for whatever the object may represent, then the outcome may prove more beneficent.”

“It isn’t…just a ring?” Amberhill asked, already knowing the answer.

“Young man,” Miss Bay said, “that ruby is a heartstone, and only the most powerful of old owned them. Before the Black Ages, mind. Before Mornhavon. Long ago when the Sea Kings roamed the oceans and all the lands owed them allegiance, except those of the Eletians, of course.”

“Their symbol,” Miss Bunch said, “was the dragon. It is believed that such creatures once inhabited the Earth and filled the skies with their wings, and that only the Sea Kings were able to dominate or destroy them.”

Amberhill had seen some strange things on his journey, not the least of which were the pirates. But dragons? Surely they belonged to the realm of fairy tale only. He pressed his thumb against the contours of the gold dragon, trying to imagine the ring as something fashioned and worn by ancients. It was not easy to comprehend.

“If you are honorable, and accept the responsibility of owning a heartstone,” Miss Bunch said, “all should be well.”

Miss Bay nodded her agreement.

Amberhill did not think Willis had heard a bit of the discussion, for he looked uncharacteristically befuddled and still muttered about pirates.

“Now that you’ve no home,” Amberhill said, “and the winter is coming on, where will you go?”

“We’ve a cousin in the south,” Miss Bay said. “We shall bide our time with her till other arrangements can be made.”

Miss Bunch rolled her eyes. “And I say we should go to Rhovanny.”

“Now don’t you start—”

“But
you
don’t like Miss Poppy any better than I. She’s a witch!”

“Don’t you mean she’s a—”

“Bay! Don’t you dare say it. You’ll make Mother turn in her grave.”

Miss Bay chortled.

“In any case,” her sister said, “it’s only until the house mends itself.”

“That’ll be forever.”

“Oh, stop.”

Amberhill excused himself and left the ladies to their quarrel. He retrieved his gear and set up his bedroll and sat upon it for some time, gazing into the dark away from the camp. The words of the sisters disturbed him and he wondered just what the ring tied him into, what responsibility he’d taken on by claiming it.

The Amberhill of old—the one who believed honor abductions a quaint tradition before it nearly cost the country its queen—might have decided to sell the piece for as much currency as he could get, abdicating any responsibility required for owning such an object; but the Amberhill of now, as disturbed by the sisters’ words as he was, was willing to face any challenges the ring presented. He’d be an able guardian of it and would not allow it to fall into the wrong hands if it indeed held some form of power.

Most of all, however, he was simply intrigued by the mystery of it. The ring was beautiful, and ancient, and he just didn’t wish to give it up.

Besides, the sisters could be wrong about it. He wasn’t sure they were altogether sane. He resolved to find out more about the ring, to learn the truth of its origins—once he’d set his estate back in order, of course.

Satisfied by the plan, he rose and headed for the main fire where stew was warming. As he walked he felt a distinct pinch on his right buttock. He jumped several feet and whirled, his hand to the hilt of his rapier, but no one was near, though he swore he heard the faintest of feminine giggles fading away.

He shook his head, then realized several Weapons and Beryl Spencer had observed his odd behavior and watched him in curiosity. In a move he’d learned from cats, he pretended nothing happened and continued on his way with the utmost dignity in his step.