The High King's Tomb

  Sunny jerked her head up and skittered backward.

  “Fergal!” Karigan’s voice rang sharp in the stable.

  He loosened his hold on the reins, but his posture was stiff, almost quivering.

  “Are you going to order me to apologize to her?” Fergal demanded.

  “Wipe her down and she won’t shake all over you,” Karigan said, forcing herself to keep her tone mild. “She doesn’t understand your anger.”

  “I know—she’s stupid.”

  Karigan ground her teeth, keeping an eye on Fergal even as she grabbed a handful of straw to wipe down Condor. He nudged her shoulder again, telling her he knew she was troubled. She rubbed and patted and whispered to him. He was her comfort. If only Fergal could understand how it could be.

  Later, Karigan and Fergal sat in front of the hearth of the Cup and Kettle’s common room, with mugs of warm spiced cider in their hands. Fergal had been sullen all through supper, speaking little. Karigan did not try to draw him out, guessing she’d only antagonize him. She’d experienced his volatile behavior before and did not want to relive it.

  Now that they were warm and dry, and their stomachs full, Fergal appeared to relax. Karigan opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted.

  “Are you going to lecture me?”

  “What do you think?”

  Fergal glowered, but then settled. “I was cold, wet, and tired. She made me mad.”

  “We were all wet and tired,” Karigan replied. “The horses were drenched.”

  Fergal stared straight into the fire. “I know.”

  “Look, Sunny isn’t stupid.”

  “They’re dumb beasts,” Fergal shot back. “That’s what my da always said. That’s what the moon priest said. He said the gods gave people dominion over beasts. That’s why we can use them, eat them. Ride them.”

  Did Fergal truly believe it, or was he simply reiterating words that had been pounded into him? It wasn’t the first time Karigan had heard such words herself, but in the case of Fergal’s da, she thought it only an excuse for him to profit from butchery.

  As for the moon priest? Arguing against a belief based on faith, not logic, was generally fruitless, so she didn’t even try. What she didn’t understand was why the moon priests would preach such things when some of the gods took on animal visages, like Westrion, the Birdman.

  Rain lashed windows in sheets. The gloomy weather left the common room subdued, other patrons conversing in muted tones over hot drinks, or playing games. A flash of lightning illuminated the room.

  “I’ll take care of Sunny,” Fergal said quietly in an afterthought, “don’t worry on that count, because if I don’t, I can’t be a Rider.”

  It was good he intended to provide Sunny with care, but what kind of Green Rider would he be, Karigan wondered, if he could not see horses as more than lowly beasts? As meat?

  I guess it’s not a requirement that he love horses, but she shook her head, thinking such feelings could only render a horse and Rider an ineffective team.

  Despite Fergal’s attitude, she still held out hope for him. She stole a glance at him as he sat there gazing into the fire, his eyebrows drawn together as he brooded.

  It wasn’t so much that he hated horses, she thought, but that he feared forming attachments. A lesson learned, no doubt, from his da.

  For his sake, and that of any horse that served with him, she hoped he unlearned such lessons. She truly did.

  The storm blew itself out during the night, but as brief as it was, once they set out the next morning, they found evidence of its ferocity everywhere. The countryside was littered with broken tree limbs and shingles that had been ripped off houses. A few trees had toppled across the Kingway, which they had to navigate around.

  The weather, however, was perfectly calm and sunny by the time the Riders found themselves less than a day’s ride from Selium. Whenever Karigan rode this section of the Kingway, she identified a certain spot along the edge of the road that awakened memories of when her life had changed, memories of when she had become more than a mere schoolgirl or merchant’s daughter.

  The place was just beyond the bend in the road ahead, and Condor’s gait slackened perceptibly for he knew it, too. Fergal adjusted Sunny’s pace to match Condor’s. He asked no questions and appeared unconcerned, probably figuring it was the rate of travel Karigan wished to set and nothing more. He rode on, oblivious to the significance of the place and she chose not to break the silence or enlighten him. This was between her, Condor, and F’ryan Coblebay.

  They rounded the bend and Karigan picked out the landmarks: the tree stump scorched by lightning, the boulder with a layer of moss on it, the particular jagged line of trees…She almost expected to find F’ryan’s body lying there in the road, stiffened in death, his hand outstretched, black hair plastered against a face drained of blood.

  Only in memory did she see him, for his corpse had been removed long ago, his presence erased, the blood washed away by seasons of rain and snow. Nothing remained of that day when the dying Green Rider passed on his desperate message errand, and with it his mantle of king’s messenger, to a runaway schoolgirl who had no idea of what she was getting into and what dangers lay ahead.

  Anyone else riding past this spot would never know or care that a man died here, but Karigan did, and so did Condor. The chestnut gelding bowed his head as they plodded by, and Karigan closed her eyes.

  Swear you’ll deliver the message, F’ryan’s lips whispered in her memory, to King Zachary…for love of country… Though weak, his voice had contained power enough to command. He had made her swear on his sword—the very same one she now wore at her side—to complete his mission. Then he had instructed her to take his Rider brooch. Little had she realized how much this act would change her life.

  There had been no time to honor F’ryan properly. Her acceptance of his mission had left her in peril and she’d needed to flee lest those who impaled him with arrows come upon her. So she’d left him on the road without even a blanket to cover him, exposed to the elements and scavengers.

  When Karigan opened her eyes, they were well past the place, and Condor’s stride quickened with a swish of his tail, his ears pricked forward. No ghostly presence followed, and she left memory behind.

  The shadows of the Green Cloak, its southwestern fringe, gave way to farm fields and open sky. As Karigan and Fergal drew closer to Selium, they encountered more villages and people, and with this change in atmosphere, memories of a different nature surfaced as Karigan gazed upon familiar buildings and landmarks.

  It was not her first visit to Selium since she ran away that spring day over two years ago. No, indeed. After completing F’ryan’s mission, she had returned to Selium to finish her schooling. When she finally answered the Rider call, she had carried messages to Selium on two occasions. More than being preoccupied by difficult school days, she looked forward to visiting with good friends.

  Soon the campus atop its hill and the city clustered beneath it rose above the open farmland. Karigan clucked Condor into an easy lope with a smile, the breeze pressing against her face. She slowed to a jog when they reached the gate to accommodate others on the street. She waved to the gatekeeper and continued on through. No one stopped them or questioned them, for Selium was an open city, not a fortress. No wall surrounded it—the gate was merely a marker of the city’s boundary.

  Almost as well known as the school that was also called Selium were the city’s hot springs, which drew tourists and the infirm from afar to bathe in one of the numerous bathhouses that lined the main thoroughfare. Steam vented from rooftops, and signs extolled the healing qualities of the springs and listed prices. There were public baths and private. Some were luxurious, and others less expensive to meet only basic needs. Today there were no lines, not this late in the season. The bathhouse operators would be more dependent now on local patrons. Some simply shut down for the winter.

  “Who would wish to bathe in public?” Fergal asked, wrinklin
g his nose as they passed such an establishment.

  “Who would want to throw himself into a freezing river?” Karigan countered, sounding more acerbic than she intended.

  Fergal clamped his mouth shut.

  Feeling a little guilty, Karigan explained, “The public baths are inexpensive compared to the private ones, and not all who come for the restorative powers of the hot springs are wealthy. Some are farmers and laborers.”

  “Have you ever used them?” Fergal asked.

  “The school taps into the springs. I never had to.” Almost as much as Karigan looked forward to seeing her friends, she looked forward to one of those baths. As king’s messengers, she and Fergal would be put up in the Guesting House, which, of course, had big tubs that could be filled with hot spring water.

  The city felt subdued as they continued on, with only a few students sitting on the steps of the art museum. During the warmer months, outdoor eateries and vendors set up along the street, but now these were also closed for the season. There were some shoppers out and about, but no musicians looking for stray coppers played for them. Most students would be in classes at this hour.

  As the main thoroughfare through the city, Guardian Avenue, traveled upward toward the campus, the buildings on either side were of older architecture, with columns and red clay roofs. Older still were the buildings of the school, for the city had grown up around it.

  Guardian Avenue led beneath the ancient P’ehdrosian Arch onto the school grounds. The campus itself was an orderly “town” of well-laid paths and academic buildings, residences, and administrative offices. On the far side of campus were fields for athletics and arms practice, and stables with pasture, paddock, and outdoor riding ring.

  Immediately inside campus loomed the main administrative building. This was where they’d find the offices of the Golden Guardian and the dean.

  Karigan and Fergal rode up to the front steps of the administration building and handed over the reins of their horses to a stablehand.

  “I’ll see your saddlebags to the Guesting House,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Karigan replied, handing him a copper.

  As Condor and Sunny were led away, Karigan turned to the great double doors before her. She straightened her shortcoat and message satchel, and took a deep breath. Fergal waited expectantly beside her. After a second and third deep breath, she pushed open the door and plunged inside.

  MASTER RENDLE

  They entered a rotunda lined with busts and statuary of deans and scholars and Guardians, their bronze and marble gazes falling coldly upon the Riders. The rotunda no doubt impressed wealthy parents into sending their children here for their education. It also intimidated the students. As one who was not particularly serious about her studies in her early years, and one who had also managed to get into her share of trouble, Karigan ended up having to cross this rotunda several times to face the assistant dean for her transgressions. She loathed the rotunda and the stern faces encountered here.

  When she had returned for her final year, she applied herself to her studies and did not have to make this walk even once. Still, despite all she had seen and done since, the rotunda held its power over her.

  She lifted her chin and walked across the marble floor resolutely. Even if she felt intimidated, she did not have to show it.

  A student, dressed in the maroon of languages with a white apprentice knot affixed to his shoulder, sat at the clerk’s desk across the rotunda studying a book. When he saw them approach, he set his book aside and stood. “May I help you?”

  “We’ve a message from the king for the Golden Guardian.”

  “I am sorry, but he is away from the city. He may be back very soon but…it is often hard to know.”

  Karigan nodded. She expected as much. “Dean Crosley?” she inquired.

  The young man frowned. “I fear he is unavailable.”

  Karigan placed her hand on her satchel and, thinking the apprentice was simply trying to prevent her from disturbing his master, said, “This is a message penned by the king himself. It would not please him for its delivery to be delayed.”

  “I’m sorry, Rider, but—but Dean Crosley is in the House of Mending.”

  “What?” Karigan stepped backward. “Is he all right?”

  “He lives,” the apprentice said, “but I don’t know the particulars. He interrupted a burglary and was beaten. His heart is not strong either.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” she said. Unlike his predecessor, Dean Crosley was a practical and fair-minded administrator. “I suppose the assistant dean has his hands full then.”

  The apprentice nodded. “Master Howard is helping to sort out the mess with the archivists and trying to figure out what was stolen, if anything.”

  “The burglary occurred in the archives?” Karigan asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, Rider. We think it very odd. There are precious documents down there to be sure, but none of those are missing, or even disturbed.”

  “Strange,” she murmured. Then she faced Fergal. “Looks like we’ll be doing some waiting.”

  Fergal nodded, and Karigan could not tell whether or not he was pleased by this development.

  “You could leave your message with one of the masters or trustees,” the apprentice suggested.

  “Thank you, but my message is for the Golden Guardian or the dean alone. I am hesitant to leave it even with Master Howard.”

  “I’m afraid I can be of no service then. May I at least lead you to the Guesting House?”

  “No, thank you. I am familiar with campus.”

  As they retreated across the rotunda, Fergal asked, “What are we going to do now? Just wait around until the Guardian shows up?”

  “I’m afraid so. That, or until the dean is well enough to receive the message. You might as well enjoy it—there’s much of interest going on here.”

  Karigan gave Fergal a tour of the campus so he might become familiar with its layout. She pointed out the library, various academic buildings, and the dining hall. When the campus bell rang they got caught in the middle of a colorful swarm as buildings emptied and students hurried to their next class. Karigan remembered herself burdened with books, rushing and dodging to reach her next class before the bell rang again for lessons to begin. In her early days, she had often been late or had not attended at all.

  Almost as quickly as the courtyard filled, it emptied, punctuated by another ring of the bell. Fergal looked stymied, as if some magical spell had been cast to make the students vanish. Karigan smiled and led him across campus to the athletics field, hoping to find a certain master at work there.

  When they arrived at the arms practice area beside the field house, they found Arms Master Rendle instructing first-year students in basic defensive moves with wooden swords. Karigan and Fergal watched over the fence as the arms master and his apprentice walked among the students, assisting them in finding the correct stances and technique. Some were intent on just swatting one another and smacking knuckles, their voices shrill. All through it, the arms master remained calm, never raising his voice. It struck Karigan as such a complete contrast to Drent’s “teaching style,” that she felt jealous of the students getting to work with Rendle. Drent, she thought, being the monster he was, would eat these youngsters as an appetizer before breakfast.

  Rendle looked up just then, and smiled when he spied them.

  “Now class, I’m going to show you what real swordplay looks like.” He waved Karigan and Fergal over.

  They stepped through the fence rails and the students hushed, regarding the Riders with curiosity.

  “These are Green Riders,” he told them. “Messengers of King Zachary.”

  The youngsters gazed at them with even more interest. Riders were a rare sight, especially off main roads and deep in the countryside. A Sacoridian could live an entire lifetime without ever seeing a Rider, or even knowing they existed. Hands darted up and so many questions poured out that Rendle and Karigan could bar
ely keep up with them.

  “Why do you wear green?”

  “Do you know the king?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Are those swords real?”

  To the last, Karigan answered by sliding her saber from the sheath just enough to give them a hint of the steel that remained hidden. The children clustered around her to touch pommel and hilt.

  “That’s nothing,” one loud boy said. “My father has a jeweled sword used in the Clan Wars. I get to touch it anytime I want.”

  “Shut up, Garen,” the other students said.

  When an argument threatened to arise, Rendle raised his hands and commanded, “Enough.” Silence fell immediately. “I am sure that the sword of Garen’s father is a fine and storied weapon. But these are weapons, and their purpose is not glory or decoration, but use in combat. I have no doubt that this Rider saber has seen a good deal of service.”

  Garen was red faced and looked displeased.

  “Have you killed lotsa people?” a girl asked Karigan.

  “Um…”

  Rendle sighed. “That is not an appropriate question for our guest, Nance.”

  “Sorry, Master Rendle.”

  He nodded. “Now, if Rider G’ladheon is willing, we shall demonstrate some true swordplay at a level that, if you practice hard enough, you may one day attain. This all right with you?” he asked Karigan.

  Karigan felt she could hardly decline after that buildup, but she didn’t mind anyway. She passed the message satchel and her swordbelt into Fergal’s keeping and picked through a pile of wooden practice swords till she found one that suited her. She and Rendle then moved to a worn ring on the practice field where bouts were conducted. She swept the blade through the air to get the feel of it and loosen her muscles. The apprentice moved the students a safe distance from the ring. If either Rendle or Karigan stepped outside of it, the bout was lost.

  They touched swords and initially went easy, each gauging the other. Then they worked through basic moves, the clack-clack-clack of their wooden blades the only sound on the field.