The High King's Tomb

by Kristen Britain

  “You get outta my dooryard at once, you no good vagrant!” the woman screamed. “I won’t have your ilk picking through my rubbish no more! Now git!”

  Karigan did not move fast enough to satisfy the woman for the contents of the bucket were flung on her. She tore from the dooryard and onto the street, the woman hollering after her. Unfortunately the liquid that doused her smelled of boiled cabbage. She hated cabbage.

  At least, she consoled herself, the woman spoke the common tongue and it had that neutral, mid-Sacoridian lack of accent she associated with Sacor City and its surroundings.

  She ran down the narrow street past silent shop fronts until she finally came to a signpost beneath a street lamp that confirmed her thoughts. She stood on Fishmonger Street. She cried out in triumph, for the adjoining street was the Winding Way—she was in Sacor City. She still had a ways to go to reach the castle, as Fishmonger Street was in the midsection of the city. Why in the names of the gods did the bridge she crossed leave her in a refuse pile on Fishmonger Street?

  The gods obviously had a foul sense of humor. Literally.

  She sighed and turned up the Winding Way. It was uphill, though gradual. Her wet hair was beginning to stiffen in the cold. Maybe some kind soul would give her a ride in their cart, but between the stench she must emanate and the hour, she doubted her chances were very good.

  Karigan trudged all the way up the nearly deserted street, taking shortcuts where she could. It was so much easier when she was astride her Condor. It did not help that her various aches and pains from before the white world reawakened, making her walk more of a trial than usual, and it really did not help when the snow-slick cobbles underfoot caused her to fall.

  When finally she reached the castle’s outer portcullis gates, she wanted to kiss them. Instead, since they were closed for the night, she rapped on the door to one of the portcullis towers. Someone moved inside and slid open the peephole.

  “What ye want?” a gruff voice demanded.

  “It’s Rider G’ladheon,” she said.

  “What? Where’s yer horse?”

  “Long story that has no time for the telling,” she replied.

  The weariness in her voice must have convinced him for he did not press her further. Instead he stepped outside with a lantern to look her over.

  “Yup,” he said. “I recognize ye, but yer not looking too good.” Then he crinkled his nose. “Not smelling too good neither.”

  He called up to his fellows in the tower above, who in turn called down to the guards on the other side of the gate. They opened the pedestrian door in the gate and ushered her through, locking the door behind her, keys chiming on a huge ring.

  “Cold night,” the guard with the keys said. Then he snuffled. “You smell something rotten, Rider?”

  Karigan shook her head and hurried over the drawbridge that crossed the moat. At one time, King Zachary had kept both gates open as a symbolic gesture to his people, but that had changed when the grounds were infiltrated by undead wraiths over the summer. She did not think a closed gate would have deterred them, but Colin Dovekey insisted at least the outer gate remain closed during the night as a precaution.

  Guards challenged her several times as she made her way to the main castle entrance. When she reached it and was admitted into the castle, she stood some moments just inside, both relieved to have made it back so quickly, even if by unconventional means, and unsure of what to do next. Report to Captain Mapstone, she supposed. That meant venturing back out into the snow and cold and trudging to officers quarters.

  She’d just rest a minute, she decided. She was weary and everything was a tad hazy. She slid into a nearby chair, oblivious to the guards grimacing and fanning their noses. One cracked the doors open to let in fresh air.

  Feverish and chilled, shivering and sweating, Karigan dozed off where she sat.

  When someone prodded her shoulder, she awoke in mid-snore, and an inrush of awareness—the foul odor, her sore head, lamplight glaring in her eyes—assailed her. Before her stood a Weapon. Or somewhat stood. He leaned on crutches.

  “Rider?” he queried.

  “Fastion?”

  He inclined his head.

  Then it all came back to her, the reason for her extraordinary journey; its urgency. And she’d been sleeping! “The tombs—” she began.

  Fastion nodded down a corridor. “This way. There is no time to lose.”

  Karigan stood, feeling like every bone ached. “You know?”

  He gave her that stony look that once caused her to nickname him Granite Face. “Of course I do not know, but you arrived without a horse, or so the guards say, and without your saber. You are wearing a Weapon’s cloak, which is curious in itself. And where you are concerned one may expect trouble.” Fastion led the way down the corridor, swinging along rapidly and with ease on his crutches.

  “You aren’t going to say anything about how I smell?” Karigan asked as she hurried to catch up.

  Fastion merely spared her a look of disdain. When she asked him about the crutches, he said he’d acquired his wound during the ambush on Lady Estora.

  “She’s fine,” Karigan said. “At least she was when I saw her in Mirwell.”

  That brought Fastion to a halt and he squinted at her. Then he muttered something unintelligible and set off again.

  He took her deep into the west wing to a chamber she had never seen before, a long room lined with black banners and black onyx statues of stern warriors. There were tables set in orderly rows and she took the place for the dining and meeting hall of the Weapons. Five awaited them as if anticipating their arrival. She recognized Brienne Quinn, though it had been a while since she had seen the tomb Weapon, but the others were unknown to her. They formed a half circle around her and Fastion.

  “Rider G’ladheon has come to speak of the tombs,” Fastion said.

  What? she thought. No “how are yous” or an offer of tea? She repressed a sigh and decided to get straight to the point and leave the Weapons to it so she could find her own bed and rest. It seemed a very good idea just then to let someone else shoulder the kingdom’s problems.

  “The book the king has been seeking to fix the D’Yer Wall,” she said, “has been acquired by Second Empire. In order to read it, they must put the book in the light of the high king’s tomb. If they decipher the book, they may use the information to destroy the wall. They kidnapped Lady Estora to empty the tombs of its Weapons and make their task easier, and they may be here even now.”

  She fully expected the Weapons to launch into action, but they stood as still as the statues lining the wall.

  “Food and drink for Rider G’ladheon,” Fastion ordered and one Weapon peeled away. “And a uniform and sword.”

  “One of mine should fit,” Brienne Quinn said.

  “What?” Karigan asked, but her query went unheeded as servants were summoned.

  “Lennir, see to the tombs,” Fastion said, and the third Weapon strode from the chamber.

  Meanwhile, the fourth Weapon—she didn’t give her name—removed Karigan’s odorous cloak and started stripping off bandages to examine her wounds.

  The fifth Weapon departed to seek out other available Weapons, but with the possibility of intruders on the grounds, few would be able to leave the king’s side. Soon servants arrived with cold sausage rolls, cheese, and tea.

  “She’s feverish,” the Weapon tending her informed Fastion. “The head wound appears to be festering.”

  He gazed at Karigan with some intensity, then told the Weapon, “Do the best you can with it. She can go to the mending wing later.”

  After fresh dressings were wrapped around Karigan’s wounds, she said, “Don’t you want to hear about Lady Estora?”

  “Later, after we learn what is happening in the tombs,” Fastion said. “You told me she was fine, and that is good enough for now.”

  Karigan had to admire his singleness of purpose. She picked at a sausage roll, but found it did not appeal t
o her. The tea did. It wasn’t long before Brienne returned with a uniform and longsword. She stood before Karigan. Karigan set her teacup down.

  “What? What do you—”

  “There are too few of us,” Fastion explained, “and you have been in the tombs before. You know the law. Therefore you must go as one of us.”

  Karigan gaped. Only Weapons and royalty were permitted in the tombs, as well as the caretakers who lived out their lives there. Anyone else caught breaking the law by entering the sacred territory beneath the castle was doomed to remain in the tombs forever, to become caretakers themselves and never see the living sun again. A couple years earlier Karigan and a few others were permitted passage through Heroes Avenue by king’s will alone.

  “But—” Karigan began.

  At that moment, Lennir returned at a run. “The doors to Heroes Avenue are barred,” he said, not at all out of breath.

  Fastion cast his granite gaze on Karigan. “Dress.”

  “But—”

  “You are our sister-at-arms,” Brienne said more kindly. “Ever since the usurper tried to take the throne from King Zachary have we regarded you as such.”

  Karigan could only blink.

  “And for your actions since,” Fastion said. “Otherwise we would not even consider clothing you in our black because of all it represents. Few in the history of the land have been accorded such honor and regard outside the corps of the Black Shields.”

  Maybe the fever and exhaustion skewed Karigan’s hearing. Maybe the stallion hadn’t brought her to her own world after all, but to a slightly altered version of it.

  “I’m a Weapon now?”

  “No,” Brienne said, “that requires years of specific training and sacred ceremonies. You are more of an honorary Weapon, but with that honor comes responsibility.”

  “Such as our need for you now,” Fastion said.

  Before Karigan could protest, and right there in the hall of the Weapons, Brienne and the other woman, Cera, helped her strip out of her borrowed Rider uniform and change into black; first the black linen shirt with intricate patterns embroidered onto it with ebony thread, then the leather trousers, followed by the padded doublet. They buckled hard leather guards around her wrists, but agreed gloves would not fit correctly over her bandaged hands. As she had with her Estora disguise, Karigan kept her own boots. They were, after all, black, and very similar in design to that of the Weapons’.

  The two women watched as Karigan detached her brooch from her Rider uniform and clasped it to her doublet. An odd light filled their eyes. Did they see the brooch as any Rider would or did they only see her handling an invisible object or maybe a piece of costume jewelry? She knew Weapons were well aware of Rider brooches, and that they distrusted magic as did most Sacoridians, but their regard was somehow of a different nature, on a more intense level.

  Overall, Brienne’s uniform was a good fit, and so was the longsword she strapped to Karigan’s waist.

  “I don’t know how good I’ll be at sword work,” Karigan said, raising her bandaged hands.

  “If things are well, you won’t need to draw a sword,” Brienne said.

  The man Fastion sent to find more Weapons returned with only a half dozen.

  “The main entrance to Heroes Avenue is closed to us,” Fastion said, after explaining to them what was happening.

  Karigan wondered if they’d have to ride all the way out of the city to the secret entrance, the Heroes Portal, that lay in the side of the hill on which both city and castle stood.

  “Our investigation will begin in the Halls of Kings and Queens anyway,” he continued. “With luck, that entrance is not known to the enemy and has not been barred.” He then raised his hand and clenched it into a fist. “Death is honor!”

  “Death is honor!” the others echoed, imitating the fist gesture.

  Good heavens, Karigan thought. She hoped the motto did not apply to her. She was, after all, only an honorary Weapon.

  She followed the Weapons as they filed out of the hall, feeling awkward and unfamiliar even to herself in black when she should be in green. It was almost like she had not yet caught up with herself and just had to keep running or lose herself entirely.

  Like I’m shadowing myself, she thought.

  She kept reminding herself she was a merchant’s daughter as she strove to keep up with the Weapons and wiped perspiration from her face with the back of her hand. I’m also a Green Rider. And now I’m apparently some sort of a Weapon, but not. Maybe her entire existence had become a theatrical, or maybe a masquerade where she portrayed someone different every day. Did she really know who she was anymore?

  She shook her head. No use trying to think about it. She could only keep moving forward.

  FOLLOWING THE CAT

  The journey through castle corridors swirled by in a hazy dream. Karigan was more concerned with keeping up with the Weapons than taking in her surroundings. Fastion led them at an amazing pace on his crutches. Before she knew it, they’d entered the Rider wing. The corridor was dimly lit at this hour, whatever hour it was, and most doors were shut.

  She passed her own door—it was ajar and she longed to slip into her room and go to bed. Maybe Fastion wouldn’t notice? Wishful thinking.

  A white cat bolted from her doorway and streaked past the Weapons down the corridor. This roused the Weapons to surprised murmurs.

  “A tomb cat?” Brienne mused aloud.

  There was general agreement among the Weapons. What in the name of the heavens, Karigan thought, was a tomb cat doing in her room? Then it occurred to her she’d seen it there before. This can’t be a good omen…

  They swept past the common room. Garth stood in the doorway in surprise as they passed by, his teacup held forgotten in his hand.

  “Karigan?” he said with incredulity in his voice.

  But she could not stop as much as she wanted to, and so only gave him a feeble smile and a wave.

  Some of the Weapons grabbed lamps from along the Rider wing, for beyond lay the abandoned section of the castle that remained in a perpetual state of night. The lamps created a temporary dusk, but night fell in behind them as they hastened on.

  If Karigan hadn’t the Weapons to guide the way, she’d be completely lost. The abandoned corridors branched and intersected in so many places and seemed to stretch for miles that she began to think of it as an unlit labyrinth, with secrets hidden beyond every corner. But they did not pause to unravel secrets. Fastion and his Weapons had a destination in mind and headed toward it without faltering. Rodents with gleaming eyes scattered before them.

  Left, then right. Right, then left. Down sets of stone stairs into deeper, darker levels of the castle. Karigan did not even try to remember the way, and simply incorporated it into her streaming consciousness. Keeping to her feet and keeping up was her priority.

  They stopped.

  Karigan plowed into Lennir, who gave her a stern look.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled. Some honorary Weapon she made.

  At some point they’d entered a wider corridor and when Karigan saw lamplight glance off the polished stone surface of a coffin rest, she understood why. The corridor had to be wide enough to permit a funeral procession to pass through, and before them was a set of double doors equally wide. They had reached the entrance to the tombs Fastion sought.

  The white cat leaped onto the coffin rest, watching the movement of lamps and pouncing on reflected light, its tail swishing in concentration.

  Fastion and Brienne consulted before the doors. The light revealed ancient script and carvings of the gods above them. Most prominent, of course, were Aeryc holding the crescent moon and Westrion with his wings spread, riding his black steed.

  Fastion uttered some command and swords whispered from sheaths. Karigan put her hand to the unfamiliar hilt at her side but did not draw the sword, feeling too clumsy. Just the sound she’d make would disrupt the silence the real Weapons exuded.

  Instead of a sword, Fastion d
rew out a key and turned it in the locks, then carefully tugged on the door rings. The doors did not shift. He tugged harder, but to no avail. Another Weapon helped, but even their combined efforts failed to open the doors.

  Fastion pivoted on his good leg, the lamps casting grim lines across his forehead. “Our way is blocked. We must consider the Heroes Portal.”

  The other Weapons did not speak out in dismay, but Karigan could tell from their heavy countenances they were displeased. It meant gathering horses, riding all the way down through the city, out of the city itself, and losing valuable time.

  The white cat jumped down from the coffin rest and landed beside Karigan’s feet. It rubbed against her leg, purring loudly. Then, with a stretch, it padded off in the direction they had come.

  “Or, we could,” Fastion mused, “follow the cat.”

  Maybe this was a dream after all, Karigan thought. Who ever heard of Weapons following cats? But follow the cat they did.

  They found it sitting on its haunches and licking its paw at an intersection of corridors, as if waiting for them. When they approached, it darted off down the corridor to the right. They followed, the cat ghosting in and out of the lamplight, treading a trail it was familiar with. Either that or they were all on a mouse hunt. Karigan almost giggled at the image of Fastion with feline whiskers.

  She wiped her brow with her sleeve. The fever inspired ridiculous notions.

  Eventually the corridor dead-ended at what looked more like a natural rock face than castle wall. Fastion scratched his head.

  “I don’t remember this.”

  “Nor I,” said Brienne, “but most of my time is spent in the tombs.”

  The others agreed it was new to them.

  Primitive drawings were etched into the rock face—stick figures carrying…sticks? Were they spears? Creatures like birds and mammals were also etched into the rock.

  “I’ve seen pictures like these before, though,” Brienne said. “Elsewhere in the tombs.”

  “Yes,” Fastion replied. “I remember them.”

  “Who did these?” Karigan asked. “They look like a child drew them.”