Firebrand

  “Of course we do,” Karigan replied.

  The captain nodded and said, “You had better get going so you are not late for your meeting with Agemon. You may be dismissed.”

  New sword in hand, Karigan left her bemused captain behind and hurried out into the cold, trying not to slip on the slick path. With any luck, she could fit in a hot bath, or at least change, before having to meet Agemon in the tombs at the appointed hour.

  CAPTAIN AND ARMS MASTER

  Laren had her own appointment to attend, and after Karigan left, she drew on her greatcoat, and the hat and mittens knitted by Stevic’s sisters. Her shock over Loon diminished as she stepped out into the bright winter air. She stood blinking on her step for a moment before setting off in a purposeful stride down the path that led to the field house. She would visit her horses—the plural felt odd—later. First she needed to have a word with Drent.

  She found him in the weapons room tidying up racks of practice swords. He turned when she entered, and when he saw who it was, a muscle spasmed in his cheek.

  “Ah, Captain.”

  “Arms Master.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  Now that she was here, she found her fire from the previous night had subsided. “Next time you decide to make one of my Riders a swordmaster, I’d very much appreciate the courtesy of a forewarning.”

  He weighed a couple of wooden practice swords in his hands. “I wouldn’t worry.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The only other Rider who has a chance of it is never around.”

  “Beryl Spencer.”

  “That’s right. The king has her away all the time. She can’t keep up on her skills, and at this rate she will never make swordmaster.”

  Beryl was often off on secret missions to which even Laren was not privy. Her special ability was to assume a role, and Zachary and his spymasters had made good use of it. Even now Laren could not say where her Rider was.

  “As for your other Riders,” Drent continued, “even if they come along with their skills, their training isn’t consistent enough. Always gone on errands. Here, hold these.” He handed her the practice swords, then lumbered away toward the big room with its tall windows, where bouts and training took place. She strode after him.

  “Your Rider G’ladheon,” he continued, stepping into one of the bout rings, “was well trained during her school years in Selium by Rendle, as much as it pains me to admit it, so she had a good foundation. Has a knack for the sword. Plus, she has proven herself in other ways, so she is a swordmaster.”

  “That is fine and good,” Laren said, “but I should have been informed she was receiving a status that may affect her duties.”

  Drent shrugged. “Should enhance her ability to perform her duties.”

  Laren’s ire began to reignite. Talking to Drent was like talking to a stone wall. He was as big as a wall, actually. “She is my Rider.”

  “Possessive, are we? Hand me a sword. No, the other.”

  She passed him the heavier of the two, and he swept it through the air.

  “Of course I’m possessive! I am responsible for the Riders and how they serve the king. I am responsible for their lives.”

  “The king told you what was going on, didn’t he?”

  “Only after the fact and her so-called honorary Weapon status was formalized.”

  He took her by the elbow and guided her into the ring, she stepping over one of the low planks that delineated it. “Stand here, please. I do think you are overreacting, Captain.”

  Laren wanted to tear out her hair. “If it was one of yours being given honorary Rider status—”

  “Wouldn’t happen,” he replied implacably.

  “What do you mean it wouldn’t happen?”

  Drent shrugged. “I just don’t think any of my swordmasters or Weapons would be of a messenger bent.”

  “I am being theoretical,” she almost shouted, her voice echoing in the expanse of the building, “about me stealing one of your swordmasters.”

  “Wouldn’t happen. Now, instead of waving that sword around every time you have something to say, hold it like so.” He moved her arms and wrist into a guard position.

  “Drent?”

  “Captain?”

  “What are you doing?”

  In response, he attacked. She jumped backward, scrambling to block an onslaught of blows, the sound of clacking wooden blades thundering in the high-ceilinged space. She was too shocked by the suddenness of his attack, his jabs and thrusts and cuts, to even protest.

  Just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Laren stood at the edge of the ring trying to catch her breath. “What in the hells was that for?” she demanded.

  Drent gazed critically at her. “How often have you been training with Gresia?”

  “What? Oh, I don’t know.” She shrugged. It had probably been years since she did any regular training.

  “I heard you were quite good in your day.”

  “In my day? Now wait a—”

  He raised his sword as if to strike once more. “Yes. In your day. But clearly you’ve not kept up your skills. You are rusty, Captain. How are you to lead your Riders in the field when your skills are not up to par, eh? What sort of example are you setting for them? Too much sitting around in your quarters, I’ll warrant.”

  “How dare—”

  He lunged and she tripped backward over the ring’s border and fell. He stood over her with the tip of his sword to her neck.

  “You’re an easy kill, Captain.” He leered down at her. “You are to report to Gresia three times a week with your lieutenant and Chief Rider. We can’t have any of you growing lax and comfortable.”

  “Lax?” she sputtered. “Comfortable? I can’t—”

  “The king agrees.”

  “Zachary—?”

  “Yes, Captain. You can ask him yourself.” He reached out to help her to her feet.

  “I don’t have the time!”

  “No excuses, Captain.”

  “It’s not an excuse!”

  “Make the time. Remember, it’s the example you set. Plus, the king has ordered your schedule cleared for training at ten hour.”

  Laren was so flummoxed she didn’t know what to do or say. She’d come to give Drent an upbraiding he wouldn’t forget, and the next thing she knew he’d “killed” her in a bout of swordplay. How did they even get there? He was truly in trouble now, she thought, but he was walking away, back into the weapons room.

  “Of all the . . .” She trotted after him. When she caught up, he took the practice sword from her.

  “Remember, ten hour, Gresia, tomorrow.”

  “You are impossible.”

  “It is something oft said about you.”

  “Why you—you—” She was so outraged she could only sputter.

  He turned his back to her to replace the practice swords on their rack, but not so fast that she didn’t see his gruesome grin. Then he turned on her. “Face it, Captain, I won this round.”

  “I would not be so smug if I were you.”

  “No?” He crossed his arms over his barrel chest. More seriously, he said, “The king wants you ready for whatever may come, not just because he wants the Riders fit for battle, but because he cares about what happens to you. Furthermore, the workout might help you with your rheumatism.”

  “My . . . ?” How did he know?

  “My job is to observe the bodies of my trainees day in and day out, as they hone their skills. I know when they are hurting, I know when they are injured. I can see it when you walk and how you hold yourself. Gresia is aware, too, so she will work with you appropriately. Vanlynn has also been notified.”

  Laren was so aghast that something she had kept to herself for so long was apparently common knowledge that she didn’t know what to sa
y, except, “Bloody hells.”

  “You,” Drent said, “are dismissed, Captain.”

  “This isn’t over, Drent,” she replied, and she turned on her heel and headed for the door, reddening when his low, throaty chuckle followed her outside. She slammed the door shut behind her. How had he turned it all around on her? How had he gotten the upper hand?

  It would not, she thought, happen again.

  AN APPOINTMENT WITH AGEMON

  As it turned out, Karigan did not have enough time to take a bath, but settled for splashing freezing water from her basin onto her face and changing into a dry, clean uniform. She considered taking one of her swords along to prove to Agemon she really was a swordmaster and approved by the Weapons, but she remembered how, when last he had seen her, she and the Weapons had deceived him into believing she was a Weapon by doing nearly the same thing. Brienne had garbed her in black and lent her a sword with its swordmaster’s silk so she could enter the tombs without any complaint from Agemon. Having a sword along with her, with its black silk band, would not impress him this time around.

  She started when a knock came upon the door. She was relieved to find Brienne without, as she had been wondering how she was supposed to find her way to Agemon.

  “Ready for your appointment?” Brienne asked.

  Karigan grabbed her longcoat and nodded.

  “What? No sword?”

  “We’re just going into the tombs, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” Brienne said, “but you are a swordmaster and honorary Weapon now.”

  “Does that mean I have to carry my sword all the time?”

  “Not all the time, but certainly when you are on duty.”

  That, Karigan thought, was going to get tedious. She glanced at both swords, wondering which to wear.

  “You could carry both,” Brienne said, following her gaze, “as the First Rider once did.”

  “I don’t think so.” People would assume she was overcompensating or something. She decided on her new saber. She’d had time with the longsword last night, and it would be good to get acquainted with the saber.

  “How many swords do you have?” Karigan asked Brienne.

  The Weapon started counting on her fingers and gave up. “Several. Some for practice only, or ceremonies. I have also collected a few antiques that are for display. There are several others that I actively use.”

  “I see.”

  With that, they were off. The weight of the new saber actually felt good and proper against her hip, much the same as her old one, but it hadn’t the history, the heritage, nor had it been proven in battle. The new one had not belonged to someone else before, and she guessed she’d have to give it a history of its own.

  Brienne led her to the royal wing.

  “I thought we were going to the tombs.”

  “We are.”

  Damnation. When they’d entered the royal wing, Karigan had felt the slightest kernel of hope they would not be entering the tombs, after all. They made her skin crawl, all those halls of the dead. Alas, it seemed the more she wished to avoid the tombs, the more she was drawn into them. She could not escape them. And what in five hells did Agemon want with her, anyway?

  Brienne led her down stairs, where they came to a wide arched door with bas relief carvings of the gods above it, most prominently Westrion riding his steed, Salvistar. Another Weapon stood on guard at the door.

  “This is Scotty,” Brienne said, “newly come to us from the Forge. Scotty, this is Sir Karigan.”

  The fresh-faced young man gave her a half-bow. “It is an honor,” he said. “I have heard about your feats, Sir Karigan, and congratulate you on your swordmastery.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are most welcome.”

  He was very formal, but Weapons tended to be, and perhaps because he was fresh from the Forge, he was even more so.

  “Sir Karigan has an appointment with Agemon,” Brienne said. “She has not entered the tombs through the royal chapel before.”

  So, Brienne had brought her to the royal chapel of the moon . . . She’d entered the tombs through other entrances, but not this one, though her first time in the tombs, she had exited from a commoner chapel within the castle.

  “How many entrances are there?” Karigan asked.

  “This has the same entrance as the commoner chapel,” Brienne replied. She patted the wall behind her where the corridor ended. “It’s just on the other side of this wall.”

  Karigan noticed the Weapon had evaded the question about the number of entrances. Her honorary status as a Weapon only went so far, apparently.

  Scotty opened the door for them, and, inside, the chapel was quietly lit with candles. Like the commoner chapel, there was a coffin rest that also served as an altar, but that was where the similarity ended. Where the commoner chapel had been plain and furnished with only wooden benches, this one was carpeted with rich red pile. There were rows of plush chairs. The candlelight glinted on silver and gold vessels and metalwork. The walls were covered with tapestries, and the ceiling paintings depicted the gods in the heavens among the constellations.

  “We rarely enter through the chapels if we can help it,” Brienne said, “in case there are parishioners within. We do not wish to disturb them. However, I thought you might like to see this one.”

  On the opposite wall, there was a set of double doors. Brienne strode to them, knocked, and they opened into another chamber. When Karigan followed Brienne through the doorway, she remembered it with its big fireplace and the coffin rest. It was a sort of antechamber to the tombs.

  “Ah, Sir Karigan,” said the Weapon, Lennir, who had let them in. “Good to see you again.”

  “You, too.” She did tend to see rather less of the tomb guards than the Weapons who attended the king and queen. She turned around to face the way they had come in. Next to the doors of the royal chapel stood another set of doors. Those must lead into the commoner chapel.

  “Do you remember this place?” Brienne asked.

  “I do.” It had been the night of Prince Amilton’s coup attempt, and she, along with the king, Brienne, and others, had infiltrated the tombs via the Heroes Portal, passed through the avenues of the dead, to this chamber, and then exited through the chapel for commoners. The king had then led them through other secret ways to reach the throne room.

  “It is a receiving room for the royal dead, a place where the family can mourn without their retinue watching on. Of course, most of the time it is a post for our Weapons. We take tea here, warm up by the fire. But come, Agemon will become agitated if we do not reach his office at the appointed time.”

  They bade Lennir farewell and passed from the receiving room into a rotunda from which three corridors spoked. The way was brightly lit in all directions, the air cool and dry, with no scent of decay or must. Fresh air currents circulated throughout the tombs. They had been well built to preserve those who slept within, and to make them habitable for the caretakers. Statues of stern kings and queens in white marble stared down at them. Along the corridors lay the sarcophagi of the royal dead.

  Karigan pulled her longcoat tighter about her, chilled as much by the atmosphere as by the natural coolness of the tombs.

  Brienne struck off across the rotunda and into the corridor that lay straight ahead. Karigan was hard on her heels, not wishing to be left behind and alone. The corridor was wide with lamps aglow on the walls. The sarcophagi were precisely spaced, but not all were alike. Lifelike effigies reclined on some of the lids, while others held no figures at all. The iconography was either of the gods, or showed scenes from that monarch’s life. The small sarcophagi saddened Karigan, for they contained children. A wooden toy horse was placed atop the tomb of one small prince.

  In other parts of the tombs there were burial chambers that were much more extravagant. One queen lay in a reproduction of th
e bed chamber she’d slept in during her life, and was read to each night by a caretaker. There were chapels and libraries and sitting areas throughout that were rarely used, but nevertheless were well maintained for royals who had not wished to slumber through eternity without the comforts they had known in life, as well as for those who mourned them.

  Brienne halted at one such sitting area, the stone walls covered by wood paneling and paintings of pleasant landscapes. A decanter of wine and goblets sat waiting on a table. Karigan supposed such spaces could be used by visiting family, but there were only Zachary and Estora in residence, and would they really visit all the dead, or just those they had known in life? She shuddered remembering there were already empty sarcophagi awaiting the king and queen.

  To her surprise, Brienne stepped between a pair of chairs to reach the wood-paneled wall. She pressed something recessed into the ornate molding, and the wall opened inward into a narrower passage.

  “What’s in there?” Karigan asked in surprise.

  “The offices and workshops of the caretakers.”

  Karigan thought it clever that the entrance was concealed within the wall. This way, the presence of the caretakers remained unobtrusive and allowed the tombs to retain their overwhelmingly sepulchral impact.

  The corridor they entered was more utilitarian and not at all sepulchral. The doorways they passed opened into offices where people worked at desks doing who-knew-what. It reminded her very much of the administrative wing in the castle above. What in the tombs could require so much office work? She asked Brienne.

  “The same as Green Riders, I would guess,” the Weapon replied. “The ordering of supplies, the keeping of accounts, the scheduling and oversight of all aspects of caretaker life. The tombs are almost a city unto themselves.”

  It was so strangely ordinary, Karigan thought.

  “Beyond the administrative area,” Brienne continued, “are the workshops of artisans who create and repair many objects in the tombs, including sarcophagi and statues. Many of the burial goods are very old and require special care, particularly textiles.”