The High King's Tomb

by Kristen Britain

  Mel overheard and her eyes widened. For once she was speechless.

  “And this other,” Rendle continued, “is for Arms Master Drent.” He did not explain further, but he said, “May the gods bless your journey. I’ll miss your help with my classes, and I enjoyed having Fergal here, too. Keep working with him—he’s learned much during his short stay.”

  Fergal stammered his thanks, and Rendle squeezed his shoulder.

  Before Karigan could stuff the new messages into her satchel, Mel gave her a letter to her mother as well.

  “You couldn’t let me see what Rendle’s sending her, could you?” she whispered.

  Karigan tsked. “You of all people should know better. A Green Rider would never open a message intended for someone else.”

  “I know, I know,” Mel grumbled. “Not allowed to break the seal and all that.”

  Karigan laughed and hugged her. No doubt Mel would pester Master Rendle for details about the messages for days, if not weeks.

  On the front steps of the Golden Guardian’s house, Karigan bade everyone farewell, and gave Estral a final hug.

  “Never fear,” Estral whispered, “your secret will remain safe with me.”

  “Thank you.”

  Karigan and Fergal mounted their horses and set off, leaving the Golden Guardian’s house and the campus behind. As they rode through the streets of Selium, Karigan speculated that perhaps the most pleasant part of their journey was now over.

  TYING KNOTS

  Grandmother sat beside the fire tying knots, the insistent winds numbing her fingers and the cold sun providing absolutely no warmth at all, but she could not pause, not even to warm her hands. Hawk Hill was no place for her or her people to be with the winter coming, and soon they’d have to disperse into the countryside. Some would seek shelter with members of other sects of Second Empire, and the rest would move into one town or another to start their lives over. Captain Immerez and his men may have survived winters up here, but families with little children were another thing.

  Grandmother’s pouch had been done for a while now and it lay in the basket at her feet. She struggled with this new piece, and tried to block out the sound of hungry wails from Amala’s baby in a nearby tent so she could concentrate on her knots. He was a strong, healthy little boy and his parents were justifiably pleased. He had Amala’s eyes and the roundness of his father’s face.

  Concentrate, old woman, she chided herself.

  This was delicate work. She chose the brown yarn for it, because it was the color of the earth, and the spell would be used underground. The words she spoke as she knotted were ancient, dark, almost freezing upon her lips. She had not dared attempt the spell at night, when that which was already dark deepened in the shadows. The time was now, in daylight.

  The yarn fought her, tried to slip the knots and her mastery. She used all the authority she could muster, drawing on the voices of her ancestral mothers to tame the yarn.

  She tightened a knot for awakening.

  The end of the yarn tried to wriggle free from her fingers.

  A knot to call.

  A loop slipped around her index finger and tightened in an attempt to cut off circulation.

  And a knot to rise.

  A force flung her hands apart so she could not finish the complex sequence, for her spell was one that perverted the natural order of the world, but she bore her whole will into it, and as she tied off the last knot, wind blasted the summit, bending trees and ripping needles and leaves off limbs, and sending sparks and ashes from Grandmother’s fire into her face. Tents braced against the wind and her people hid their faces from it. An angry wind, it was, and she fought to control the knotted yarn in her hands that came alive, distorting, growing, and shrinking as she murmured still more words of power.

  As she spoke, the power sipped the life out of dormant plants around the summit. A hare, its fur mottled in the midst of its change from summer brown to winter white, dropped dead in its tracks. The heart of a stag browsing somewhere below the summit stopped. These little lives fed the knots.

  The power she worked crept about the summit, and she fought to keep it out of the encampment. It took the life of a fox in its den. Ravens flushed from a pine as they sensed the power’s encroachment, but the last was not fast enough. Needles of the tall, strong pine they had perched in yellowed and dropped, swirling in the wind.

  The power oozed closer to the encampment, voracious in its need. She fought to ward it off, to redirect it. A clutch of chittering squirrels silenced and plummeted from a tree to the ground. A grouse fell limp, never to thrum for a mate in the spring again. Raccoons, a stand of aspen, sheep laurel…

  Grandmother built shields to protect her people, but it was like trying to grasp a wave with her hands. The power could not be tamed and it leaked through her commands. It slithered along the summit, seeking only one more life, and it knew which it wanted.

  “No!” Grandmother whispered, and she tried to avert the power once more, to make it at least take an adult, one of Immerez’s men, or their Greenie prisoner, but the power sought something more innocent, new.

  The power washed past Grandmother’s shields and the incessant crying of Amala’s baby stilled.

  There was only silence but for the wind that roared in Grandmother’s ears. “No!” she screamed.

  The knotted thing wriggled and burned in her hands. The power had fed, and was now satiated. The baby’s cries were replaced by Amala’s wails.

  Grandmother squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, she found Lala beside her. The girl touched her sleeve, gazing at her with that inscrutable gaze of hers.

  Hovering over Grandmother’s blistered hands was a black sphere that gleamed like glass. It gently descended till it rested on her palm. It was smooth and cold. She shuddered.

  “Child,” she said to Lala, her voice a croak, “please bring Captain Immerez and Thursgad to me.”

  The girl nodded and trotted off.

  There was one more thing Grandmother needed to do to complete the binding of the sphere. She rolled it off her palm into the bowl that preserved Jeremiah’s blood. The sphere bobbed on the surface for a moment, then sank to the bottom with a solid clink. The blood began to steam and boil, then quickly evaporated until there was none left. The black sphere remained on the bottom of the bowl, an unnatural gleam upon it.

  She hesitated to touch the sphere, but had no choice. It felt heavier than before, heavier with the accumulated weight of souls. Little souls, innocent souls, and that which was once verdant with life. She spoke one last word of power and breathed on the sphere, turning it silver. Suddenly it started to draw the breath from her, sucking it out of her lungs. She looked away and gasped for air, feeling faint. Hastily she tucked the sphere into a leather purse and drew the strings closed.

  Chills surged through her and she pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders. The gray of stone, the weak sun and biting wind, not to mention the exhaustion of working the art, left her feeling forlorn and empty. It did not help that Amala’s unquenchable grief and weeping buffeted her in stormy waves. Some of the encampment’s women clustered at the entrance to Amala’s tent, murmuring among themselves. Tears gathered in Grandmother’s eyes, and she kept telling herself the sacrifice had been necessary.

  Presently Lala returned with Captain Immerez and Thursgad. Now that their parchment had been translated, it was time to take action. As Grandmother hoped, it had contained the instructions for the handling and reading of the book of Theanduris Silverwood. When she first informed the captain a week ago that she wished to utilize Thursgad in her plan, he was incredulous and asked, “Why Thursgad?” He did not think much of his soldier, despite the fact the young man had remained loyal to him and had even joined him in exile.

  The only response Grandmother could conjure at the time was, “He’s a good boy.” And he was. Of all of Captain Immerez’s soldiers, which was really a band of criminals and thugs, intuition told her Thursgad was t
he most likely to complete the task she laid out before him. He had soldierly training, but more than that, he’d been raised in the country with simple values, including the loyalty he showed Captain Immerez, and a good dose of honesty. He would do as he was told.

  “Are you prepared to leave?” she asked Thursgad.

  “His horse and gear are being readied for him,” Captain Immerez answered for him.

  “Good, for he will have to leave immediately.” She picked up the purse with the solid weight of the sphere in it and passed it to Thursgad. “Protect this well, for it is dangerous. Break it only when your business in the tombs is finished, no sooner. Do not even look at it or handle it until the appointed time. Do not let anyone else near it, not even Gare or Rol. Do you understand?”

  Thursgad’s face paled, and that told her more than his nod that he understood very well.

  “Now,” she said, “in order to find the book, I’m making a seeker to guide you. Once you have the book, you are clear on what to do?”

  Thursgad nodded.

  Captain Immerez jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow. “Tell her.”

  “Aye, sir. Aye, Grandmother. I understand. When I find the book, I am to take it to Sacor City.”

  “Correct,” Grandmother said. “And?”

  “And I find Gare and Rol at the Sign of the Red Arrow and show them this.” He pulled a pendant of the black tree out from beneath his shirt. It bore in white paint the heart sigil for “friend of Second Empire” on it. “Then I tell them what is to be done. From that point they will take the lead.”

  “Very good, Thursgad,” Grandmother said. “You will make me proud. I know you will.” She affirmed her words with a smile. He smiled back, albeit tentatively.

  “I will now make the seeker,” she said, “and you must not waver in your pursuit of it.”

  “I won’t, Grandmother.”

  “I know, my boy.” She took the knitted pouch from her yarn basket. The use of all four colors, and the knots and gaps and hanging strands looked as if it had been knitted by a madwoman, but each stitch, each knot, wove together the spell to conjure and direct the seeker. From her pocket she removed the finger bone of Theanduris Silverwood. The story of how one of her far distant ancestors acquired it was lost through the veil of time. In those days, the practice was to cremate the remains of mages, to enhance the flames with magic to such a heat that every last bone was burned to ashes, and then the ashes were scattered across vast areas. Bones held power, and Sacoridians did not want that power to get into the wrong hands.

  Grandmother’s ancestors had had the foresight to steal and hold onto this finger bone, somehow knowing that it would one day be required for a then unknown task. That task was now apparent, and Grandmother was humbled that it should happen in her time. In order to find the book of Theanduris Silverwood, she needed something of his essence, and the finger bone would serve perfectly.

  It was the full finger, the joints held together with faded, knotted yarn, the bone smooth ivory. She slipped it into the pouch, used the word of power, and flung it into the fire. The yarn of the pouch wiggled like glowing worms and the bone itself tried to probe its way out of the pouch, out of the fire, but it was trapped. The pouch melted into the bone until it all became one molten lump among the coals.

  Grandmother was tired. Making the sphere had drained her, but she gathered what energy remained and blew on the coals. The flames leaped, and from them rose another sphere, a tiny orb of red-gold flame that wafted in the air.

  “Lead Thursgad to the book of Theanduris Silverwood,” she commanded it.

  The seeker floated through the air and slowly circled around Thursgad’s head. He licked his lips and a bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

  “It will lead you along the most direct route,” Grandmother said.

  Captain Immerez beckoned forth one of his soldiers, who waited with Thursgad’s horse and gear. Without a word, Thursgad mounted, his gaze cocked to the seeker.

  “Go with my blessing,” she told him.

  “Aye, Grandmother,” he said, and the seeker flared and sped to the east.

  “What are you waiting for, idiot?” the captain yelled at Thursgad.

  Thursgad spurred his horse after the seeker.

  Captain Immerez muttered inaudibly as he watched Thursgad vanish from sight, then said, “I impressed upon him that he was not to fail. He isn’t the sharpest nail of the bunch, you know.”

  Grandmother sighed. “I do know, but he will not fail me.”

  The captain seemed about to walk away, but hesitated. He rubbed the curve of his hook against his chin the way he always did when troubled or in deep thought. “Grandmother, that other thing you made…What was it?”

  “Just something to keep the king and his men busy. Yes, a little bit of yarn to shake the castle’s foundation.” But it was much more than that. So much more.

  When it was clear nothing else was forthcoming, the captain left her, striding toward his side of the encampment.

  Grandmother inspected her red and blistered hands, and before she knew it, Lala was at her side with a pot of healing salve without even being asked.

  “Such a good girl,” Grandmother said. “I’m tired to the bone, but as soon as we take care of my old hands, we should help lay out Amala’s baby.”

  Lala rubbed the salve into Grandmother’s hands, then helped her rise to get her aching bones moving. Grandmother hobbled toward Amala’s tent from which so much grief emanated.

  “Her child died for the empire,” Grandmother murmured. “I will make her see that and she will be proud.”

  MERDIGEN’S TALE

  The storm hadn’t done any of them good, Dale reflected, except possibly Alton. It seemed to ease some turmoil within him; that is until he realized he was beset by yet more delays, namely having to deal with the devastation in both encampments. As the man of rank, it was his obligation to oversee recovery efforts.

  The wind had peeled roofs off new cabins in the main encampment and trees had flattened tents. Every single person worked to secure shelter, rescue supplies, and tend the injured—even Dale, though Leese made her rest frequently.

  Being struck by Alton and falling into the mud had not helped Dale’s injury, but it wasn’t so much the physical pain or telltale bruise on her cheek that hurt most. It was more the wound to her spirit. Rationally she knew he hadn’t meant to hurt her, that he’d been caught up in some inner battle the way he’d shaken his fist at the storm and yelled who-knew-what at the gods. He’d looked a madman in the flashes of lightning as the wind and rain lashed him.

  She remembered how the moon priests used to talk about the demons that occupied the hells and how at times they escaped their imprisonment and infested the souls of people and changed their behavior. At their worst, the demons could provoke people to commit vile acts like murder. She didn’t think Alton struggled with actual demons, but it was a good metaphor for what he seemed to be battling.

  In the days following the storm she’d heard the whispers circulating among the soldiers, laborers, and servants of the two camps, who thought him cracking just like his cousin had. Alton must have overheard the talk, too, for he’d worked dawn to dark to restore order, reshingling roofs, clearing broken boughs, mending tents. She believed only the thinnest of veneers, however, held his frustration and anger at bay.

  Yes, rationally she knew he wasn’t himself when he’d hit her, but no matter how often he apologized, hurt lingered inside. He had not been able to stop himself from hitting her, his friend and fellow Rider.

  Presently the sun beat down on her shoulders as she stood before the tower wall. She could not reconcile the day’s serenity with the howling tempest of that night, but the debris still strewn about the encampment was sufficient evidence of what had happened.

  At breakfast, Alton declared enough work had been accomplished that he could once again focus on the wall and Tower of the Heavens, and now she sensed his presence behind her like a phy
sical force urging her to pass through stone.

  She sucked in a breath, touched her brooch, and without looking back or speaking to him, she sank into Tower of Heavens. The passage was not as fluid as she remembered, but jarred her with sharp edges and the texture of stone scraping her flesh. The voices were there, scratching at her mind, and restless. When she fell out of the wall into the tower chamber, she exhaled in relief, a little disoriented.

  “Back so soon?” The sarcasm in Merdigen’s voice was unmistakable. “At least a hundred years or so haven’t passed this time.”

  She found him sitting at the table and combing out his beard. A couple long white whiskers drifted to the floor and disappeared.

  “Um,” she said trying to organize her thoughts, “there was a storm.”

  Merdigen grunted.

  Dale joined him at the table, brushing off what must be several hundred years’ accumulation of dust from a chair before sitting on it. Merdigen sneezed at the cloud she raised. “Do you…do you really need to sneeze?” she asked.

  Merdigen paused his beard combing. “Usually the polite response to a sneeze is an offering of blessing. You raised dust, therefore I sneezed. You’ve returned for a reason?”

  “We had more questions.”

  “I see. Then ask them. I haven’t all day.”

  Dale wanted to know what on Earth could possibly compete for his time, but she held her tongue. “Alton—the Deyer—and I felt there was much you might tell us.”

  “As I’ve said before, I have no idea of how he might pass into the tower, and the guardians want nothing to do with him.”

  “We believe there are other things you might be able to tell us,” Dale said, “beginning with very basic information. Over the centuries, a lot of history about the wall has been lost. The more we can find out about it, the better we might understand how to fix it, and we believe there is much we can learn from you.”

  Merdigen eyed her with a skeptical gaze. “Tell me what you do know, then we shall see.”